IN THE TOILS 
of SLAVERY 


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MRS. W. S. BLACKBURN 


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IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY 




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LIBRARY of CONGRESS 


Two Cooies Rflcolved 

S£P 6 1906 


Gooyngtu Entry 

tccf 

CLAS^ XXc. No. 
COPY B. 


Copyright, 19()6 
By ivy C. BLACKBURN 



IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY 


/ 


PREFACE. 


That the following work is very defective from a literary 
view point the writer is well aware, but our only aim is to 
impress the reader with a few of the crimes and some of 
the suffering caused by the liquor trade, which we consider 
the most heinous of crimes ever tolerated by an enlightened, 
God-fearing people. 

The incidents herein described have either come under our 
personal observation or been gleaned from sources supposed 
to be reliable. 

With this brief explanation of our book, we commend it 
to your careful consideration. 



IN THE TOILS OF 
SLAVERY 

CHAPTER I 

A few years ago, just as a summer’s sun was sinking be- 
hind the stately Rockies, two men were standing in front 
of a saloon in a little town in one of our middle western 
states while a girl of perhaps twelve years of age was hurry- 
ing away as fast as she could walk. One of the men, Paul 
Rivers by name, was a noble specimen of manhood. Rather 
above the medium height with broad shoulders and symmetri- 
cal figure, his dark hair and beard, slightly streaked with 
gray, being the only indication of age. Goodness and be- 
nevolence were stamped all over his face, while the keen 
brown eyes were usually kind and sympathetic. Just now, 
however, they are flashing anger and stern rebuke as their 
owner addresses the man by his side, Ezekiel McGregor, one 
of the village saloon keepers, for Rosedale, though only a 
small place, can boast two saloons. 

“I must request you, Mr. McGregor, not to use profanity 
when speaking to children. It frightens this one exceed- 
ingly.” 

^‘Let ’em stay ’way then. Who wants ’em whinin’ 
’round?” replied McGregor, sullenly, but his shifting, rest- 
less eyes refused to meet Mr. Rivers’ searching gaze and he 
turned and entered his saloon muttering: 

“What’s he cornin’ nosin’ ’round here for, I’d like to 
know? They say the city chaps is afraid of him. Makes 
’em shet up Sundays an’ the like. Queer doin’s for a 
preacher, I must say, an’ he needn’t think to come it over 
me. I’ve paid good money for license an’ I’m goin’ to sell 

1 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


liquor as I please, and’ I’ll have no meddlin’ preachers 
’round neither, an’ if the kids don’t want a eussin’ they 
needn’t come blubberin’ ’round.” 

McGregor’s soliloquy was plentifully adorned with forms 
of emphasis that we regret to say are not all together pe- 
culiar to gentlemen of his calling, but as the reader will 
doubtless find enough else in the perusal of these pages to 
shock his various senses we refrain from writing them here. 

But what a contrast to his visitor is McGregor ; of medium 
height, but with a form bloated from the use of stimulants, 
bushy eyebrows that almost meet over greenish gray eyes, 
and a face that seems already to have received the mark 
of the beast upon it for thereon are written almost every 
form of vice. But as McGregor re-entered his saloon hate 
and fear chased each other over his repulsive visage, for 
there had been that in Paul Rivers’ manner as he made his 
carefully worded request that told McGregor he meant to 
have it respected and despite his bold words McGregor had 
his share of that fear and dread that always more or less 
haunts the evildoer. 

‘‘Hello, Mack. Look as if you’d seen a ghost,” said a 
young man who was sitting in the back of McGregor’s sa- 
loon at a card table. As McGregor made no reply he con- 
tinued in a jesting tone : 

“I saw the parson pass just now. Didn’t he stop to pay 
his respects? Ah, yes; I see by your reverent looks he did. 
Well, why didn’t you ask him in for a social glass and game? 
I’ll declare. Mack, I’ll begin to believe these ill-natured 
tales I hear of you bein’ stingy if you don’t do better.” And 
the young man chuckled with satisfaction at the storm of 
rage to which he knew McGregor was longing to give way, 
yet dared not, because he, Jack Winters, was one of his best 
customers, and a general favorite because of his good humor 
and freeheartedness. 

This last named virtue covered a multitude of sins in the 
eyes of that portion of McGregor’s customers, who had not 
always the wherewithal to pay for their indulgence. 

“You’re welcome to your own opinion,” retorted Mc- 
Gregor. 


2 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


‘ ‘ Or perhaps he only called to read you a friendly lecture 
and give you a little advice about running your business 
now. Jest a few hints on the latest fads and so on. Ah me, 
this world’s growin’ too good for such as you and I, Mack.” 

“You can speak fer yer self,” replied McGregor, resolved 
not to betray the cause of Paul Rivers’ visit and not relish- 
ing the ill-concealed mirth of the three or four men pres- 
ent, he went behind the bar, and preparing himself a lib- 
eral glass of liquor, drained it off and resolved to stay where 
he was until the conversation turned. 

“I’ve heard tell that this same Paul Rivers makes it un- 
common hot for a certain class of saloon men up town,” 
remarked one of the men as McGregor disappeared. 

“How so?” asked another. “It’s a legal business.” 

“Oh, the business is legal enough as for that, but there’s 
several laws, you know, such as shuttin’ up Sundays, not 
sellin’ to minors and the like. Nobody bothers much about 
enforcin’ ’em though, an’ liquor dealers ain’t goin’ to obey 
’em unless they have to. But this Paul Rivers, it seems, has 
took a notion to enforce these laws and has got some o’ the 
folks up-town stirred up a lot about it. The saloon men. are 
gettin’ to hate him like pisin’. Make all kinds o’ threats 
behind his back but are always respectable enough when 
he’s around. I’ll bet he’s had a dozen of ’em jerked an’ 
fined this month.” 

“An’ what good does it do?” asked Jack. “They don’t 
care for a fine once in a while, that is most of ’em don’t. 
Jist pay it and go on same as ever.” 

“I know some of ’em don’t care, while others are slick 
enough or have influence enough with judge or jury to get 
off Scott free, but all the same they’re gettin’ not so bold. 
There you’ve won agin. Make it a hundred this time?” 

“Just as well I reckon,” said Jack, “but don’t think fer 
a minit you’ve got the wool over my eyes. I’ve played 
with too many sharpies not to see into your little game.” 
For well he knew the professional gambler before him had 
only allowed him to win the smaller wagers in order to 
induce him to make larger ones. “So I jist give you fair 


3 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


warnin’ this is my last game an’ if you want to quit about 
even you’d better get down to biz.” 

“Oh! You may beat; it’s all luck you know,” replied the 
gambler. 

“No, I don’t know,” said Jack. “But who is this Paul 
Rivers, and why should he go about molestin’ honest men 
who only want to make an honest livin’?” This last was 
said for the benefit of McGregor, who had emerged from 
behind the bar. 

“I don’t know much about him only he’s been to the city 
olf and on fifteen years preachin’ and doctorin’: they say 
he’s great at doctorin’, but don’t doctor any body much 
but poor folks and don’t charge nothin’. Kind of a queer 
duck I guess, but he ain ’t no special friend o ’ mine. ’ ’ 

Jack flashed his companion a keen glance. 

“Why, I naterly supposed you was the best o’ friends. 
What’s to pay? Caught you at some o’ your tricks. I’ll 
bet. There you’ve won of course,” he continued, throwing 
down the cards. “Come on let’s have a drink, I’m one of 
Mack’s best friends and can drink money or no money. 
Here, Mack, two of your very best.” 

“Here’s to your health and luck, Mr. Winters,” said the 
gambler. 

“And now I must be gettin’ across to my own shebang. 
If you’re in town till supper time come around. I can 
beat the hotel women a cookin’.” And Jack sauntered out 
and crossed the street to a small house where hung the 
sign — Jack Winters’ Restaurant — in large letters. Here 
he had lived six years alone and as far as anyone in Rose- 
dale knew he was entirely alone in the world. 

Meanwhile Paul Rivers had overtaken the child and 
asked, as he kindly took her hand : 

“How is your baby sister, Ada?” 

“Oh, sir; we think she’s worse and I was trying to find 
papa, but I can’t.” And a world of grief and misery looked 
from the large, dark eyes. 

“I think he is at home now,” said Mr. Rivers. “I saw 
him going that way a few moments ago.” 

4 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


And Ada hurried on. Poor child! He could not tell 
her how he had found her father on the street beastly 
drunk, and only with difficulty had succeeded in getting 
him to his home. For Paul Rivers better than any one 
else understood what her sensative nature suffered be- 
cause of her father’s intemperance. 

She was not a pretty child. Small for her age, with a 
figure slightly stooped ; a sallow complexion and thin, sharp 
features. That is Ada Everett, the drunkard’s daughter. 
The only redeeming thing about her was her large, dark 
eyes from which a troubled and anxious soul seemed al- 
ways looking out as though amazed at the wickedness it 
was obliged to witness and wondering why it was so. One 
could almost read her thoughts in her eyes ere they were 
expressed in words and doubtless this was what so an- 
gered McGregor. He could read in her eyes the horror and 
disgust she felt for him and his business. 

The Everetts had not always lived at Rosedale — for that 
is the name by which the village is known — nor had Mr. 
Everett always been a drunkard. Indeed Ada could re- 
member the happy though humble home that had been 
their ’s less than five years ago. They had lived in a city 
then some fifty miles from Rosedale, and Mr. Everett had 
been a prosperous carpenter. To be sure he took an oc- 
casional drink with a friend; most men did; he had ar- 
gued when his wife had remonstrated, and it was nothing. 
Did she think he would be a drunkard? He was not so 
weak as that. 

Then an enterprising prospector, while searching for gold 
found, not gold, but coal of an extra fine quality near Rose- 
dale, and that hitherto unpretentions little town straight- 
way started on a “boom.” Carpenters were in great de- 
mand and Mr. Everett had persuaded his wife that they 
could do much better there than in the city, where all oc- 
cupations were crowded, and Mrs. Everett had consented 
to the change, partly because her husband’s arguments 
sounded reasonable, but chiefly because he had recently 
formed the acquaintance of men whom she feared would 
prove his ruin unless he could be separated from them. 

5 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


They were not bad men from a worldly point of view. 
Oh, no! They were simply jolly good fellows, who loved 
a good joke and a good dinner washed down by a good 
glass of wine or anything else that suited their fancy at 
the time. 

Their place of meeting was at a club, restaurant or some 
hotel, and occasionally at the home of one of the men. 
Mrs. Everett never knew how her husband became ac- 
quainted with his jolly, and as he insisted, harmless com- 
panions; she had never met but one or two of them her- 
self and knew but little of them except that, since her hus- 
band’s acquaintance with them, he frequently came home 
the worse for drink — a think that had never occurred be- 
fore. 

When questioned he would reply that he did not drink any 
more than the others, but some way it would go to his 
head. She need not worry. He didn’t want to seem odd by 
refusing what all the rest took as a matter of course. He 
would get used to it soon, then it wouldn’t hurt him. Jim 
Browning said that was the way it served him at first and 
now he can drink as much as any one and never show it. 

‘‘But why get used to it? Why not let it alone?” Mrs. 
Everett had persisted. 

“Oh, because everybody drinks a little. It’s sociable 
and looks snobbish to refuse, especially one’s friends,” 
was the reply and Mr. Everett had persisted in his social 
glass while it with equal persistency kept going to his 
head. 

So matters stood when Mr. Everett proposed moving to 
Rosedale for reasons given and as before stated Mrs. Everett 
readily consented, hoping that once her husband was sep- 
arated from his gay companions he would loose his desire 
for the social glass. 

Accordingly their small but comfortable home was sold 
and the removal took place at once. 

They rented the only place to be had at the time, a 
small house at the edge of the town. 


6 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


There were many such, built by the coal company es- 
pecially for the miners, but the Everetts were glad to get 
it until they could look about a bit, as Mr. Everett told his 
wife, when they would buy a new home with the money they 
had received for the old. 

Mr. Everett at once received all the work he could do, 
for he was a good carpenter, and carpenters good and bad 
were in great demand at Rosedale. 

But danger, the more dangerous because unsuspected, 
was lurking near, and one evening as Mr. Everett was go- 
ing home from work he saw standing in the door of Rose- 
dale’s new saloon, an old friend, and as he drew near he was 
greeted thus: 

“Why Dan Everett, where did you spring from? Look 
like you’d been at work, too. Don’t live here, do you?” 

“Yes; we moved about a month ago, but hanged if I 
expected to run onto you here,” was the reply, and Mr. 
Everetl; wiped the sweat from his face, for he had been 
working and the day was warm. 

“Oh, I’ve been here nearly a year now,” said Mr. Bunn, 
for that was the man’s name. “I came away kind o’ sud- 
den you know and didn’t tell anybody where I was goin’. 
Fact is I saw such a good opening here for another saloon, 
I made up my mind to try the business a spell. Yep, this 
place is mine and I’ll tell you I’m making money. That 
livery stable ’cross there ’s mine, too. But come in and rest 
an’ let me give you something to cool you off a mite.” 

Daniel Everett entered his friend’s saloon in spite of a 
dim consciousness that he ought not to do so and accepted 
the glass of iced liquor offered him, remarking as he re- 
turned the empty glass: 

“That is good, Bunn, and no mistake. Guess I’ll take 
another; it’s cooling and this has been the devil of a day.” 

“Of course, all right,” said the loquacious Mr. Bunn, as 
he refilled his glass. “An’ now, Dan, as you’ve jist ar- 
rived you can’t know the ins and outs o’ the place as I do. 
Now there’s two saloons here an’ it’s a wonder there ain’t 
more, it’s sich a good place; but nobody that is anybody 

7 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


goes to McGregor’s. Sich a place as he does keep! 
Quarrels and fights to beat the devil, in short a good place 
for peaceable folks to stay away from, I can tell you, and 
as I keep as good stuff as he does an’ sell it as cheap I 
get most all the trade; at least the respectable trade. Of 
course ’tain ’t exactly the kind o ’ business I ’d like for a life 
time. I don’t aim to stay in it always, but I thought it 
too good a chance to get a good start to let slip. Good 
chances don’t fiy around every day.” 

Mr. Everett agreed with his friend about “good chances” 
being scarce, congratulated him on his shrewdness in out- 
witting his competitor and promised to patronize him when- 
ever he wanted anything in his line, which proved far too 
often for his own welfare or the happiness of his family. 
He not only drank but allowed himself to be persuaded into 
gambling and soon lost all the money received from the sale 
of his home. 

This was a great blow to Mrs. Everett, who was in deli- 
cate health, but her husband seemed so penitent that she 
instantly buried her own disappointment and began to 
plan to reduce expenses. She might get plain sewing to 
do. Ada was large enough to help with the work, even 
Charles and James could do something and baby Dan was 
almost three years old and not much trouble. 

It seemed to her now as she looked back over the last 
two years of her life that it was almost impossible to 
crowd so much pain and disappointment into two short 
years. 

When Mr. Everett had work the most of his earnings 
went to his friend Bunn, but more often he was without 
work for no one cared to employ a man as unreliable as he 
had become. 

They were obliged to leave the comfortable if small 
house where they first moved and go to a miserable little 
hut near the center of the town. It was in plain view of Mr. 
Bunn’s saloon, though some little distance from it, and 
here, after about a year’s residence at Rosedale, Mrs. Ever- 

8 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


ett ’s fifth child was born — a lovely blue-eyed girl baby, that 
was named Lilly. 

About this time Mr. Everett gave up the carpenter trade 
entirely and went to work in the mines. There he worked 
when there was work and spent both his time and money 
at Mr. Bunn’s when there was not, so that before Mrs. 
Everett was able to be at work at all, she was obliged to 
depend almost entirely upon herself for the support of her 
children, and as the people of Rosedale were, for the most 
part in yery moderate circumstances, and therefore did most 
of their work themselves, it was not always easy to get 
work to do. Then her babe fell ill and she could not give 
up the work she had secured, the children must have 
bread, the rent must be paid, so Ada who had cared for it 
almost entirely so far must do so still while the mother 
sewed or washed by day, but it was she who watched its 
restless tossings at night and the work of the day and loss 
of rest at night was fast breaking her not too strong con- 
stitution. 

But these troubles were not her worst. If God in His 
mercy saw fit to take her babe out of misery and want she 
felt that she could be resigned to His will and if she was 
obliged to live the life she was now living until death, it 
would not be long. 

It was the welfare of her husband about which she was 
mostly concerned. If he persisted in leading a dissipated, 
drunken life where would it end? 

Perhaps you have read harrowing tales of the separation 
of negro families in the days of slavery. Yet if the negro 
woman’s master sold her husband away where she might 
not hope to see him again in this life she could still have 
the hope of meeting him in the great beyond, where there 
are no slaves, masters or partings. 

But the wife of the slave to strong drink can have no 
such hope. If she believes her Bible she knows if her hus- 
bands lives and dies a drunkard he is lost forever. 

Then, too, Mrs. Everett’s children were a source of anx- 
iety. Perhaps in spite of all she could do her boys would 

9 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


follow their father’s example. She had hoped to be able 
to teach them that what their father did was right and to 
point them to him for their example. She had kept from 
them as long as possible the knowledge of his weakness 
for liquor, and only when she could no longer do so, did 
she undertake the difficult and humiliating task of teach- 
ing them that they must in no wise follow in their father’s 
footsteps. 

Ada, she felt, was safe; for during a series of meetings 
held by Mr. Rivers the winter before she had given her 
heart to Christ and became a member of the struggling 
little church, where he occasionally preached, and since then 
Paul Rivers had evinced a strong interest in her and called 
whenever he came to Rosedale, which was not often, for 
his time was almost all spent in the city as before men- 
tioned. 

He had on several occasions spoken to Mr. Everett of 
the dangerous life he was leading and tried to persuade 
him to give it up, but with no visible effect. 

Mr. Everett would listen respectfully to what Mr. Rivers 
had to say, acknowledge he was not living right, perhaps 
stay away from Bunn’s a day or two, and then go on as 
before. 

He really tried some times to quit drinking. He knew 
his family needed all his earnings and when he was sober 
his conscience was never at rest. His wife ’s careworn face ; 
Ada’s appealing eyes and his two sons who, in their child- 
ish innocence, thought their father perfection and strove 
to imitate him in all they did, and lately the wasted form 
of his baby daughter — all were silent but powerful ac- 
cusers — and he often told himself he would quit, but was 
sure to meet with too great a temptation sometimes in the 
shape of a generous friend ( ?), but more often it was simply 
his own craving for drink that led him on. 

He had been drinking as already stated when Mr. Riv- 
ers found him and persuaded him to go to his home. He was 
lying on a lounge in a heavy sleep when Ada entered. 


10 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


Mrs. Everett, who had been growing anxious about Ada 
since her husband had returned alone, was pacing the floor 
with the sick child in her arms, pausing occasionally to 
look down the fast darkening street and when she at last ap- 
peared she said almost impatiently: 

“Well, child, you’re here at last. I was on the point 
of starting for you. You know I hate having you out by 
yourself so late. And you’ve been frightened, too. What 
was it?” Noticing for the first time her daughter’s pale 
face and dilating eyes. 

“Not the dark, mamma,” was the reply. “But when I 
didn’t find papa at Mr. Bunn’s, I came past Mr. McGregor’s, 
and, oh, he is such a wicked man and talked so dreadful 
to me ” 

“You didn’t go in there, Ada,” interrupted the mother. 

“Oh, no! I wouldn’t, even at Mr. Bunn’s. It scares me 
just to stop at the door or even to pass by; I always want 
to run. I know they wouldn’t really hurt me, but I can’t 
help it.” And the still trembling child sank on a stool at 
her mother’s feet. 

“You must never go to either place again, come what 
will,” said the mother, firmly. “I oughn’t ’ve allowed it 
at all, but I didn’t just see my way clear before and I 
think I know how you feel about saloons. I have the same 
feeling myself. It is something like the feeling one would 
experience if he stood at the mouth of the bottomless pit, 
Mr. Rivers preached of the other Sunday.” 

Ada grew white again as her mother spoke. 

“But what of papa, mamma? What will become of him?” 
she asked in an agonized whisper. 

Mrs. Everett sighed. How could she teach her chil- 
dren the full horror of sin and still teach them to love and 
respect their father? and how teach them the certainty of 
its punishment without showing them his danger? 

“Let us hope, Ada, that your papa will not always live 
as he does now, I have known men to repent and become 
good Christians after being drunkards for many years. We 


11 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


can only hope and trust and now if you are rested a little 
I will see to supper while you sit by Lilly. ’ ’ 

“Do you think she’s any better, mamma?” asked Ada, 
turning her attention to the little wasted form in the crib. 

“I can’t tell yet. She isn’t suffering like she was, but it 
is the medicine, I think. We can tell better when she 
’wakes. ’ ’ 

A week passed and there was still no change for the better 
in the sick child. And Daniel Everett had not touched liquor 
all week. Perhaps his love for his child had been stirred by 
the probability of losing her, or there had awakened within 
him a desire to throw off the chains of vice and be the man 
he once was. Anyway he had walked resolutely by Mr. 
Bunn’s saloon every morning and night, for a week, with- 
out stopping. 

Be it known when Mr. Bunn went into business he went 
into it in a businesslike way as every one should who ex- 
pects to succeed. He had built his saloon near the edge of 
the town next the mines, for if the miners had to pass by 
the saloon going to and from their work they would be more 
apt to stop and take a drink than if they did not. Shrewd 
man, Mr. Bunn. But why not? Is his business not lawful? 
Then has he not a right to use every means in his power to 
increase it and make money by it? 

“Mamma, do you think little sister will die?” asked Ada 
one morning as her mother was beginning a washing that 
must be done that day for one of her employers. Ada her- 
self was clearing away the dishes and occasionally tip toeing 
to the adjoining room where the sick child lay sleeping. 

Mrs. Everett finished rubbing the garment she had in her 
hands and wrung it out before replying. 

‘ ‘ God only knows, Ada, but surely we can trust him to do 
what is best and if he sees fit to take her home a little before 
us we must try not to grieve for her, but be thankful she will 
never know want, or poverty.” 

“You think she’ll die. Oh, mamma — ” And throwing 
herself in a chair Ada sobbed bitterly. The tears stood in 
the mother’s eyes, too, but she forced them back. She had 

12 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


no time for grief. At least it must not interfere with her 
work. She paused a moment, however, beside her sobbing 
daughter and gently stroking her hair said : 

“It’s only natural, Ada, for you to grieve so. You’ve 
been almost more her mother than I have, but let us not 
grieve so for her. God knows best. He only takes our dear 
ones that we may learn to care more for heavenly things 
and less for things of this earth.” 

“I know, I know,” sobbed Ada. “But how can I live 
without her ? She ’s all the little sister I ’ve got. ’ ’ 

“God will give us strength to bear even greater burdens 
than this, if we trust him,” was the reply, and with a few 
more comforting words, the mother returned to her work. 

She knew her child must die and she loved it just as much 
as you. Madam, loved that darling child that you sat by day 
and night or held close in your arms as though by your own 
strength and watchfulness you would hold back the grim 
monster. 

And Mrs. Everett, too, would have loved to sit by her 
babe as it slept and held it in her arms when it waked. It 
could be with her such a short time. If she might only feast 
her eyes upon it while it was here. But such a luxury was 
not for such as she. She must think of her living children 
as well as the dying one. If she gave way to grief, where 
would her children look for bread ! 

Ada hushed her sobbing presently and finished her work. 
She, too, was early learning to grieve in silence. After call- 
ing her little brothers from their play, long enough to wash 
them and brush their hair, she seated herself beside her 
baby sister and watched the little wasted form as it occasion- 
ally moved or moaned in its sleep. The child waked before 
the mother’s work was done and began to fret. Ada took 
it tenderly in her arms and walked softly up and down the 
room, now humming a soothing tune and now pausing to 
look anxiously into the child’s pain drawn face, until at last 
the mother’s work was .finished and she could care for her 
child herself. 


13 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


Ada prepared their scanty dinner, but neither mother 
nor daughter could eat. The mother, almost exhausted by 
her morning’s work, took her baby, and seated herself in a 
low rocker by the window, but as the child continued to 
fret and moan, she would arise and pace wearily around the 
room, sinking again into her chair, only when she felt she 
could not take another step. 

So the afternoon passed. The physician came and went 
but he could do nothing now, except leave powders to lessen 
the suffering, and in an hour or so the child grew quiet and 
seemed to sleep. 

“She’s slept more today than common. It looks like she 
might be better after all,” said Ada, while helping prepare 
the evening meal. 

“Yes, she’s rested more than common, and that’s some 
comfort.” Replying to the first part of Ada’s remarks. 

The poor child had tried all day to gather hope from the 
mother’s face or from a look or word of the physician, or 
from some change in the baby itself, but had found nothing 
except that it seemed to rest a little better, and this she 
knew herself, must be caused by the medicine, and she only 
spoke as she did with a faint hope that perhaps her mother 
thought otherwise. But she knew at once by the guarded 
answer that there was little or no chance for the baby’s life. 

When Mr. Everett came in that evening he asked about 
the baby for the first time since its illness. Once his mind 
was clear from whisky he realized what a brute he had been 
but not being willing to acknowledge his fault, he had main- 
tained a sullen silence during his brief period of sobriety, 
and his wife fearing she might anger him had avoided either 
alluding to the past or even praising him for his preiSent 
soberness. Yet she had almost unconciously began to hope 
that if their babe must die, its death might mark a turning 
point in its father’s life. 

Have you ever stood beside a loved child and watched its 
feeble struggles in the jaws of death when every moan went 
through your heart like a dart as you stood by, utterly pow- 
.erless ? 


14 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


If you have, you can perhaps understand how Mrs. Ever- 
ett suffered as she watched through those long dark hours 
alone. Ada had insisted upon staying up the night before 
and tonight the mother had sent her early to bed. 

“0, God, grant her suffering may soon cease,” prayed 
Mrs. Everett as she bent over the moaning child. 

Mr. Everett had thrown himself on a lounge after supper 
and tried to sleep. But sleep would not come. Try as he 
would, he could not shake off a dreadful feeling of guilt. 
He tried as he lay there to convince himself that he was not 
such a bad fellow as he might be. Wasn’t he staying at 
home here in this little hot room when it was so cool and 
pleasant at Mr. Bunn ’s ? And didn ’t he aim to give his wife 
every cent of his week’s wages? He had meant to give it 
to her tonight but he wanted to apologize and have a little 
talk when he gave it to her. He believed he would feel bet- 
ter, but she was so absorbed with the baby. He would wait 
until morning and they could talk while she cooked break- 
fast and filled his bucket. He arose when he heard his wife ’s 
words and crossing the room, stood by the crib a moment 
and looked at the child in silence. 

“She don’t cry much. What makes you think she’s so 
bad?” he asked. 

“She’s too weak to cry. Don’t you see how poor she is. 
And don’t you remember how fat and pretty she was?” 
said Mrs. Everett. 

“Well, when was the doctor here?” he asked, after a 
pause. 

“About three o’clock today, but he says he can’t do any- 
thing more for her.” 

Mr. Everett went back to his lounge and this time had no 
trouble in going to sleep. It had not occurred to him to stay 
up with his wife nor did Mrs. Everett feel any disappoint- 
ment at his want of S 3 nnpathy. She had learned to depend 
almost entirely upon herself for everything. Then, too, she 
was so absorbed in her child she scarcely knew when her 
husband left the crib. She thought vaguely that perhaps 
she ought to talk with him and try to encourage him some 

15 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


way but was so nervous and tired, so exhausted in mind, 
rather than body, that she felt that one extra exertion or 
one more strain, be it ever so light, would drive her mad. 
Almost another hour passed in silence and the child again 
grew restless and Ada, being awakened by its cries, came to 
her mother’s side.” 

‘‘Oh, what is it mamma? Does she hurt so bad? Can’t 
we do anything ? Is she going to die ? ’ ’ An unusually strong 
spasm of pain had convulsed the little body and left it so 
motionless and white. 

“Yes, Ada, I believe the end is near, and we ought to be 
thankful. She will be out of suffering then, and away from 
misery and want. It will be hard for us at first but we will 
learn to think more of the world where she will be and less 
of the things we soon must leave. Perhaps, too, your father 
may be influenced to live a better life.” 

But comforting words were lost on Ada now, for anxious 
as she was about her father, the certainty of soon losing her 
baby sister, drove every other thought from her mind, and 
she crept away to the kitchen to be alone with her grief. 

The little one had learned to lisp but one word and that 
word was “sistie.” She had preferred Ada to every one, not 
excepting the mother, it was Ada who taught her to take the 
few tottering steps she had taken and Ada who had washed 
and dressed her almost ever since she was born and what 
wonder the world looked dark at thought of losing her 
now. Ada wept some time in silence, stifling her sobs lest 
they should disturb the baby, then she began to pray a 
simple, childish prayer : ‘ ‘ Oh, God, it is so hard to let you have 
my little sister, but please, God won’t you give her the very 
nicest robe you’ve got; she never had anything nice here; 
papa’s money all goes for whisky and mamma only has 
enough for bread. ’ ’ As her grief subsided as the most bitter 
grief must, she thought of her mother’s last words and con- 
tinued her broken but earnest prayer. “And dear God if 
you would only keep my papa from drinking I would be so 
glad. I want to go to Sunday-school and take the boys but 
we don’t have any clothes fit. Please help papa quit drink- 

16 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


ing and I won’t cry for little sister.” Ada grew calm as she 
finished her prayer and returned to her seat by her mother, 
resolved to sit with her through the night. 

“Can’t I hold her awhile mamma?” she asked. “I’d so 
love to do it. ’ ’ And the mother placed the child in her arms 
on a pillow saying: 

“Yes, you may hold her, there is some mending that must 
be done — sit here between the door and window; it will be 
cooler. I will hurry while she is resting. ” And seating her- 
self so she could watch every change in her child’s face the 
tired mother took up her work. 

It had always been Mrs. Everett’s custom to go carefully 
over every garment after the weekly ironing was done, re- 
place missing buttons, mend every rend and strengthen every 
weak place, but since the baby’s illness she had put aside a 
few pieces every week that were scarcely worth mending 
anyway. But the baby’s illness made it less possible to buy 
new clothes and now, as Mrs. Everett just stated they must 
be mended and her needle flew fast and faster until several 
garments had been disposed of and it was nearly midnight. 

The child now roused from the stupor in which it had lain 
the greater part of the night and began to moan and feebly 
toss its head from side to side. The mother took it in her 
arms and stepped nearer the door, thinking perhaps to cool 
the feverish little body. Ada placed her mother a chair and 
then stood by in agonized suspense. 

‘ ‘ Mamma, must I bring the medicine ? ’ ’ she asked at length. 

“I’m afraid she can ’t swallow it, but we can try. ’ ’ 

Ada brought the medicine and Mrs. Everett poured a few 
drops between the child’s lips, but it began to choke and 
strangle and she stopped saying; “Ifs no use Ada, she can’t 
swallow it.” 

“Oh, can’t we do anything?” persisted Ada. 

“Only pray that the little dear’s suffering may soon be 
over, ’ ’ was the reply. 

The end came shortly after midnight. Mrs. Everett had 
lifted the babe from the pillow and was holding it close to 

17 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


her bosom as though to soothe its pain or hush the pitiful 
moaning when, after another slight convulsion the little life 
went out. 

Ada had been standing by silently weeping and when her 
mother lay the still little form back on the pillow, she knew 
without asking, that her baby sister was dead. 

It had not occurred to Mrs. Everett to waken her husband, 
in fact as the child had grown worse she had forgotten his 
presence, nor remembered it until the child was dead. 

She crossed the room to his side, wondering in a vague 
way if she should have called him sooner. 

“Dan, Dan, wake up. The baby’s dead.” 

Mr. Everett turned and rubbed his eyes sleepily. 

“Eh, what?” 

“The baby’s dead. You’d better go for Mrs. Brown. 
She said she ’d come if I needed her. ’ ’ 

Mr. Everett arose and looked at his wife curiously. He 
expected to see her prostrated with grief, and could not un- 
derstand why she was so calm now that the worst had really 
come. He could not know that a human heart may receive 
blow on blow, bruise on bruise, until there seems to be no 
feeling left, nor did he understand how one may experi- 
ence grief and disappointment until they grow accustomed 
to it, in a sense, and expect nothing else. Not that they cease 
to suffer but learn to bear all burdens calmly, with no out- 
ward sign. 

Mr. Everett v/ent for and soon returned with Mrs. Brown, 
who was the nearest neighbor, motherly and benevolent and 
some years older than Mrs. Everett. She had foreseen for 
some time that the child could not long survive. She also 
knew the cramped circumstances of the Everett’s so she had 
herself bought material and made a little robe for the child. 
It was not expensive but it was neat and pretty, and it was 
not until her babe was dressed in it and laid upon the clean 
white bed that Mrs. Everett’s tears began to flow. Then it 
was more the thoughtful kindness of her neighbor than grief 
for her child that caused them. 


18 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“It was so good of you to think of it; I don’t know how 
I’d have managed. It’s so pretty too.” Gently smoothing 
down the folds of lace. “Poor little thing, how she suf- 
fered ! ’ ’ And Mrs. Everett sank upon a chair near the bed 
and wept. 

Mrs. Brown said nothing. She thought “a good cry,” as 
she called it, would do the poor woman more good than a 
world of talk. 

Ada had thrown herself across her brother’s bed and 
sobbed herself to sleep. Mr. Everett had left the room and 
the two women were alone. Finally Mrs. Brown came and 
sat beside the mother and tried in her homely way to sooth 
her. 

“It’s what we’ve all got to come to, and think what your 
baby’s missed by goin’ now. I’d try to look at it like that 
an’ be reconciled. There ain’t many women that has a 
family of children but what has to lose one or more of 
’em.” 

“I know,” replied Mrs. Everett. “And if I could feel like 
all had been done for her that could have been done I could 
feel better. But when I think may be it was want of at- 
tention or something I couldn’t give her it seems dreadful. 
I never could take care of her like I did the others and I 
think it was my milk being overheated that made her sick, 
at first but I couldn’t see any way to help it. I had to think 
of the other children too. ’ ’ 

This was the nearest Mrs. Everett had ever come to com- 
plaining or in any way referring to her husband’s neglect 
and Mrs. Brown determined to take advantage of it and give 
her neighbor the “friendly advice” she had been longing to 
give for some time. So after a moment’s thought she said: 

“May be you’ll think this ain’t no time to say so, but I’m 
thinkin’ if you don’t quit workin’ so hard you won’t be long 
followin’ your baby. You don’t look like you ever was very 
stout and you’ve had enough to kill a stout woman since 
you’ve lived here.” 

“I know it,” said Mrs. Everett, “but I can’t let my chil- 
dren go hungry and naked while I can work.” 


19 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“No, I know you can’t. No mother deservin’ the name 
could. It’s a man’s place to pervide for his family hisself. 
You’ve never said nothin’ but I can see how your man does 
an’ sometimes I think my Jim ’d a been doin’ the same way 
if I’d a put up with it. I don’t often mention it but thought 
I’d tell you. We’d only been married a few years when 
Jim went with a gang of lumbermen up the mountains to 
be gone a spell and when he came back I noticed he smelt o ’ 
whisky most o’ the time. I didn’t say nothin’ for a long 
time fearin’ to make him worse an’ he got so bad he spent 
most all he made at McGregor’s. I worried over it an’ said 
nothin’ till I actually went crazy and was in the insane 
asylum three months. We had three children then an’ when 
I was sent home from the asylum it was the same thing over. 
Jim drunk up about all he made. I thought I’d tried keepin’ 
still long enough. I talked to Jim and told him how it wor- 
ried me an’ how bad we needed the money. He was drinkin’ 
some an’ he told me lots o’ women made their own livin’ and 
never bothered their men for money. I don’t deny I’ve got 
d temper an’ that raised it. I told Jim he shouldn’t bring 
licker home to drink before the children ; that our 
house wouldn’t hold me an’ a bottle o’ whisky, too, an’ 
that if I had to make a livin’ while he spent his 
money for rum I’d not do it an’ live with him. An’ if 
he didn’t straighten himself up an’ act like a decent man 
ort, I’d take the children an’ go. It was the first time Jim 
’d ever seen me real mad an’ as I’d been crazy once he 
didn’t know but what I might get kind o’ off agin an’ really 
do all I’d threatened an’ I don’t think he’s ever tasted liquor 
since an’ is as good a Christian man as anyone need want, 
where he might a’ been a drunkard if he’d been let alone: 
I’ll tell you honey I don’t believe in quarrels an’ I don’t 
believe in women tryin’ to be boss all the time, but I don’t 
think a racket once in a while in a good cause is the worst 
thing in the world.” 

“And would you have left him if he hadn’t stopped?” 
asked Mrs. Everett. 


20 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Of course I would,” replied Mrs. Brown; decidedly. 
“It would a’ been bad I know but not as bad as livin’ with 
him an’ may be bringin’ little children into the world to be 
like him. No, indeed Jim never drank a drop when we was 
married an’ if he’d a kept it up I’d a’ left him. I know 
what you’re thinkin’ that women ought to love an’ obey 
their husbands no matter what comes an’ I know the Bible 
says so, but it says too for a man to love his wife as Christ 
loved the church an’ a man that does that’s not a goin’ to 
spend his money for liquor while his wife makes a livin’ for 
his children an’ does without things he ought to provide, 
an’ if a man can’t live up to the Bible a little I don’t see as 
he ’s got any call to find fault with us weaker mortals for not 
doin’ it.” 

Mrs. Everett made no reply and as Mrs. Brown had al- 
ready said more than she at first intended she too, lapsed 
into silence. But Mrs. Everett was trying to think of her 
earlier life, although her brain seemed too weary to act 
readily, she was trying to recall the weeks or months just 
before her marriage. Did Dan drink then, she wondered. 
She had never thought about it before. But Mrs. 
Brown’s assurance that her husband had not done so, 
made her wonder if Mr. Everett had, and if it would have 
made any difference with her if she had known it, or if he did 
take an occasional drink then, had she any right to complain 
now? She had not thought to ask him. she trusted him en- 
tirely else she would not have married him, neither could she 
believe it would be right for her to leave him now or even 
to threaten to do so, though in the case of her friend it 
seemed to have resulted satisfactorily. 

“Now then everything’s done an’ you just lay down here 
an’ get a mite o’ rest. I’ll stay till four o’clock, but I’ll 
have to go then to get the folks off to work,” Mrs. Brown 
said, and she led Mrs. Everett to the bed for the much 
needed rest. 

Mr. Everett had only gone as far as the kitchen, when he 
left the room, and once when his wife entered it, for some- 
thing Mrs. Brown had called for, she noticed him lying face 

21 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


downward on a lounge. She spoke to him once but he did 
not answer, and supposing him to be asleep, she did not 
disturb him. 

But Mr. Everett was not asleep. He did not reply when 
his wife spoke because he feared she would talk of their 
dead baby. Of course he had heard the conversation be- 
tween Mrs. Brown and his wife. She thought, then, it was 
want of proper care and nourishment that had killed the 
babe, and Mrs. Brown thought his wife w:as working her- 
self to death to feed and clothe the other children and he 
could not deny but that it looked like it was true — and if 
so, who was to blame? Something seemed saying to him, 
“You have killed your child and are killing your wife.’’ 
Pshaw it’s so plagued hot in here no wonder a fellow feels 
bad. I’ll go out and get some air. And Mr. Everett arose 
and stepped softly through the back door into the yard, 
where he paced restlessly back and forth for some time, 
glancing anon at the light that still shone from Mr. Bunn’s 
window. He had not thought of going there when he left 
the kitchen, but now he believed he would just go over a 
moment to tell Mr. Bunn about the baby. He would feel 
better after talking to some one and he and Bunn were old 
friends. He would not be gone long and Mollie would not 
miss him. He could hear the sound of voices occasionally 
from within. 

“Why, howdy do? Ain’t seen you for an age friend 
Daniel,” was the hearty greeting of Mr. Bunn as Mr. Ever- 
ett entered the saloon. 

“No, our baby’s been real sick a long time and just died 
awhile ago.” And Mr. Everett’s voice grew husky. “I 
felt kind o’ bad and seein’ a light thought I’d come over and 
tell you, while the women were dressing it. ’ ’ 

The smile left Mr. Bunn ’s face and there was an awkward 
pause, for words of sympathy did not come readily to the 
lips of the usually talkative Mr. Bunn. Presently, however, 
a happy thought struck him and with a smile that was meant 
to be sympathetic he said : 


22 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Well, it’s too bad, but this hot weather’s bad on babies: 
My wife says so, but you look bad yourself: lost a lot o’ 
sleep I reckon, settin’ up with the baby and need something 
to kind o’ brace you up. Come and have some iced whisky; 
best thing in the world to steady the nerves and strengthen 
abody. It’s my treat you understand.” And Mr. Bunn 
busied himself preparing the drink for his friend, also one 
for himself, talking meanwhile. 

“You see I’m by myself tonight. Customers usually scarce 
after one o’clock an’ Stubbs’ is over to the stable tonight, 
as the boy that keeps it has gone to a dance somewhere in 
the country and ain’t got back yet. I’m generally at home 
by this time but as Stubbs sleeps in here I thought I’d stay 
till he got back. Stubbs is a good hand and don’t mind 
helpin’ at the stable and even drivin’ if he’s needed, which 
is more’n most clerks ’d do.” As Mr. Bunn finished speak- 
ing he held the glass of liquor toward his friend. 

Now Daniel Everett knew his weakness and realized the 
danger he was in. Of course he ought not to have tasted 
liquor that night of all nights, but the reader may as well 
understand at once that it is not the purpose of the writer to 
paint heroes in this brief narrative or even ordinary human 
nature at its best, but to give the reader if possible some 
slight idea of how his weaker and it may be coarser brother 
is effected by a business sanctioned by our government, 
though cursed by our God. 

Mr. Everett did hesitate a moment before taking the 
offered glass but on a more pressing invitation accepted and 
drank it hastily. He did feel better and decided to have 
another and by the time it was finished Mr. Everett was on 
pretty good terms with himself. What if the baby was 
dead? It wouldn’t do any good to worry, besides it was bet- 
ter off: Mrs. Brown said so. And with these thoughts for 
excuses Mr. Everett took a third glass, drained it off as he 
had its predecessors, and called for a fourth; but here Mr. 
Bunn felt it his duty as Mr. Everett’s friend to remonstrate. 

“You know Dan you mustn’t get drunk. ’Twouldn’t look 
well, an’ your baby just dead. You’ve had enough now and 


23 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

had better go on home. Your wife’ll wonder where you’re 
at.” 

“What if she does? guess she’s used to wonderin’. Mebbe 
you think I ain’t got the stuff. Well, I have, see here. Now 
hand’er over — or I’ll go to Mack’s an’ finish up.” 

The sight of the bill Mr. Everett exhibited and his threat 
to go to McGregor’s proved too much for Bunn’s conscience 
and he handed his friend a fourth glass, saying : 

“Well, Daniel, you know my soft spot. I never could 
stand to have any o’ my friends go to sich a place as Mack’s, 
but I’d hate to see you drunk agin’; you’ve done real well 
this time stayin’ sober, so long, an’ I hope you’ll keep it up. 
A man can take a drink or two an’ still not make a fool o’ 
hisself . ’ ’ 

“Oh, to the devil with your good advice,” was the reply. 
“Now put me up a pint to take along an’ I’ll be goin’.” 

Mr. Bunn heaved a sigh over the ungratefulness of man 
as he complied with his friend’s request. 

“There ti’s Dan; but don’t drink any more now an’ go 
straight home. You don’t thank me now for my good ad- 
vice but mebbe you will some day. Here ’s your change. ’ ’ 

“That’s not enough,” said Mr. Everett emphatically. “I 
give you ten and this’s only change fer a five.” 

“Your mistaken Dan. Think I’d cheat an old customer 
like you? You’re drunk er’n I thought you was. Come, I’ll 
help you across the street. Your change is alright.” 

‘ ‘ 0 yes, yer mighty good to your friends Za Bunn ’s long ’s 
you can git all ther money. I was a fool fer a cornin’ here 
tonight. I know that was a ten. Let go my arm. I ain’t as 
drunk as you thought I was. That’s it. I won’t have none 
o’ your help. What’s to run over a feller this time o’ 
night ? ’ ’ 

“Well, Dan, rather than have any hard feelins’ I’ll give 
you change for a ten but ’twas only a five you gave me.” 

“Jist keep it then. I won’t have none o’ your money, it’s 
worse ’n your whisky.” And Mr. Everett stalked bravely 
albeit a little unsteadily, from the room and started for 
home. 


24 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

Mr. Bunn heaved a sigh of relief as his friend passed from 
view. 

“I begun to think I was goin' to have trouble with Dan. 
Four glasses don’t make him as drunk as it used to and he 
tumbled. But how else can I stay even since I’ve got to let 
him have it, money or no money I’ve got to watch my 
chances to git even.” And salving his conscience thus, Mr. 
Bunn stretched himself comfortably on his couch and fell 
asleep. 

The loss of his money partly sobered Mr. Everett and he 
tried to think how it could have happend if Mr. Bunn did 
not take it. He recalled the events of the previous afternoon 
as best he could. He remembered the paymaster handing 
the ten dollar bill and he knew he had not spent a cent nor 
had it changed. Yes, Bunn must have taken it and he had 
meant to give it all to Mollie. It had been so long since he 
had given her money and now it was gone. 

He wouldn’t have thought Bunn would do him such a 
trick at such a time too, and — 0, well, it was no use to worry, 
he had meant all right. If Mollie and Mrs. Brown hadn’t 
talked as they did he might not have gone to Bunn’s. Yes, 
come to think of it he believed it was partly Mollie ’s fault, 
another drink or two from the ‘ ‘ pint, ’ ’ Bunn had given him, 
thoroughly convinced him of the fact, yet he didn’t want to 
tell her how his- money had gone for she had often tried to 
convince him that Bunn was not really his friend: that he 
only wanted his money. No he wouldn ’t tell her how he lost 
his money. She wouldn’t say anything; only look so white 
and say nothing. If she would only quarrel and scold he 
could feel abused and have some excuse for going back to 
Bunn’s. 

When he reached home he crept quietly through the 
kitchen door and stretching himself on the floor his rather 
disconnected thoughts were soon lost in sleep. 

Mrs. Brown aroused her tired friend only when she felt 
obliged to return to her own family. 

When Ada waked she took her place beside the crib and 
refused to leave it even when called to breakfast. 

25 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


Mrs. Everett did not wake her husband until breakfast 
was on the table then she was obliged to shake him several 
times ere she succeeded in rousing him. 

‘ ‘ Why, Dan, what did you lie here for all night ? Why 
didn’t you stay on the lounge?” 

Mr. Everett had no very clear recollection of the why’s or 
wherefore’s of anything at first but finally muttered some- 
thing about being so hot up there. Mrs. Everett said no 
more until they were seated at the table then she began 
timidly : 

“Did they pay you last night Dan? We’ll have to get a 
coffin for the baby you know, and I only have a few cents 
ahead. Mrs. Brown gave us the dress for her to be buried 
in so we’ll only have the coffin to buy, and Oh, yes, a place 
to bury her. I’d forgotten that.” 

Varied and conflicting were the thoughts that ran through 
Mr. Everett’s mind while his wife was speaking. He was 
inwardly raging at Bunn, at what he called his own bad 
luck, at his wife and even good Mrs. Brown came in for her 
share of mental abuse. In short he blamed everybody and 
everything except himself, for the loss of his week’s wages 
but seeing Mollie expected an answer he said. 

“Yes, they paid me; but work has been bad this week and 
’twasn’t much, only ten dollars ” 

“Ten dollars,” said Mrs. Everett, as her husband paused 
a moment to think how he would better tell the rest. ‘ ‘ Why 
that’s a good deal. If you can make that much every week 
we can soon pay for everything.” 

“But I ain’t got it now,” said he desperately. “I meant 
to give it to ‘you last night but you was so busy with the 
baby, I thought I ’d wait till morning, and now it ’s gone. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Everett gave him one searching look and read the 
truth, or a part of it, at once. She arose from the table and 
left the room without a word, an overwhelming feeling of 
anger and resentment toward her husband welling up in 
her bosom. It was not so much the loss of the money, though 
that was needed badly, but the fact that he could and actu- 
ally had, gone to drinking again and that while his child 


26 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


lay a corpse at home. To her it seemed if ever he had cared 
the least, for it or for her he could not have done so. Yet, 
she would not reproach him. He should never — no one 
should ever be able to say that she made him worse by re- 
proaches or angry words, though she felt obliged this morn- 
ing to leave his presence to avoid it. Once in the presence 
of her dead child — his child — her anger began to cool. Per- 
haps she had judged him hastily. His conduct looked bad on 
the face of it, but perhaps there was something back of it 
she could not understand. He had meant to give her the 
money. Of that she felt certain ; anyway she would not give 
place to anger. She had no time nor strength to spare for 
it. She returned to the kitchen and found her husband sit- 
ting as she had left him. Glancing up half ashamed and half 
sullen he said: 

‘‘You know I couldnT help it, don’t you Mollie? I didn’t 
mean to touch a drop. I only went over to tell Bunn about 
the baby and he offered me a drink. Said I needed it to 
cheer me up and I don ’t know hardly how it all went. There 
was nobody there but Bunn either, and I didn’t play any.” 

“We won’t talk about it now, Dan,” answered his wife 
quietly. ‘ ‘ It can ’t be helped and we will manage some way. ’ ’ 

“I’ll do the managing myself,” said Mr. Everett decided- 
ly. “You’ve had it to do long enough. I think I can bor- 
row a little money and work promises to be better from now 
on. I think Bunn gave me a lesson in friendship last night 
I won’t soon forget. I didn’t aim to tell you but he just the 
same as stole that money and I think it’ll be the last of 
mine he’ll ever get.” 

“We will hope so Dan,” was the reply, but Mrs. Everett 
did not look as hopeful at his remarks as her husband would 
have liked and he was forced to acknowledge she had little 
cause to do so, judging from the past. 

While Mr. Everett still sat at the table trying to decide 
where he would better go to secure the necessary loan there 
came a knock at the front door. Mrs. Everett opened it 
and Paul Rivers stepped quietly into the room. After a few 
words of greeting and sympathy for Mrs. Everett and Ada 

27 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


he asked for Mr. Everett. On being directed to the kitchen 
he entered it and taking Mr. Everett by the hand said : 

“I lost a child once and believe I know how to feel for 
yon in this dark hour, but believe me, my dear brother, God 
sends everything in love and mercy and if we will only let 
him, he will draw us nearer to himself through the very sor- 
row he sends upon us.” The tears gathered in Mr. Everett’s 
eyes while Paul Rivers spoke : The first tears he had shed 
for his child, but he said nothing and Mr. Rivers continued : 

“I regret very much that I am obliged to leave for the 
city this morning. I would like to stay with you until your 
child is buried, but I have work there that cannot be delayed. 
I thought, perhaps, brother Everett, as work has not been 
the best lately and your babe been ill so long you might be 
in need of a little money; if so I shall be glad to lend it to 
you.” 

Mr. Everett stared at the speaker a moment in amaze- 
ment. He had thought perhaps he might be able to borrow a 
little money from one or two men in Rosedale by agreeing 
to let them draw his pay; he thought under the circum- 
stances they might let him have enough to bury his child, 
but he had not been sure and had dreaded asking them, and 
here was this man offering it without being asked as though 
he hadn’t a doubt in the world but that it would be returned. 
For a moment he could say nothing, and then realizing that 
Mr. Rivers expected a reply, he collected his scattered senses 
and with some dignity said : 

“Yes, sir, I’d be very glad of a little loan just now if you 
can spare it. I was just going out to try to get one but as 
you say, work’s been bad and not many of the boys ’d have 
it to let. They think work’ll be better now and I can pay 
back in a few weeks.” 

“Yes, I’m sure you can, and I’m only glad to have it to 
lend you,” said Mr. Rivers, handing him a bill. With a few 
more words of comfort for the family, generally, for Mrs. 
Everett and Ada had entered the room and listened in silent 
wonder at the good man’s words, Mr. Rivers took his leave 
and was soon whirling toward that great city where sin, 

28 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


want and misery so greatly abound; where we shall follow 
him shortly, and learn something of his work in that seeth- 
ing caldron of humanity. 

His own soul was often sick at the revolting scenes he was 
obliged to witness, but he had gone bravely on doing his 
utmost to alleviate the pain, give peace to the troubled soul 
and food to the famishing body. He had lost his wife and 
only child twenty-five years ago and since then had devoted 
his whole time to the poor, sinful and afflicted. In most cases 
he gave aid, neither asking nor expecting any return except 
the inward peace that comes to all who faithfully fulfill their 
mission and when he gave the money to Mr. Everett in the 
form of a loan, he did it because he thought his implied con- 
fidence would help him try to overcome his appetite for 
liquor. Then, too, if Mr. Everett could return the money it 
would help some one more needy than he; and Paul Rivers 
knew of many so destitute that the wants of the Everetts 
sank into insignifi(5ance beside them. 

And he had not judged amiss, for Mr. Everett returned the 
money in a few weeks, with interest and thanks and felt 
more like a man than he had for a long time — and as he con- 
tinued sober from week to week, Mrs. Everett again began 
to hope that he would not drink again, and that perhaps 
their child’s death had not been in vain. 


29 


CHAPTER II. 


In the meantime the more progressive element of Rose- 
dale’s inhabitants had been preparing to have a fair. 

They had never had a fair, but since the town had grown 
so much and was too far from other county seats for many 
of the people to attend conveniently, they were resolved to 
have a fair of their own. A committee of six of the more 
influential citizens were appointed to make necessary ar- 
rangements and they met from time to time, either in Tom 
Long’s store or John Reynolds’ blacksmith shop, to make 
reports and discuss plans. 

John Reynolds had been unanimously chosen chairman 
of said committee. He was a strong, rather heavily built 
man, a little past the meridian of life, with an honest ruddy 
face, and black hair and beard as yet untouched by time. 
His chest, shoulders and arms showed great bands of muscles, 
strong as the iron rods he so readily shaped to suit the varied 
needs of his customers. 

John Reynolds had brought his family, a wife and six chil- 
dren, to Rosedale when that now flourishing town consisted 
of only six houses besides his own. He, like the Everett’s, 
had been glad to leave a crowded city for the beautiful 
scenery and pure mountain air of Rosedale, and more so as 
his wife was then a semi-invalid and he hoped the change 
would benefit her. He invested his savings in timbered land 
and settled down to his chosen work. Pour of the children 
had married and gone to homes of their own, leaving one 
son and daughter yet at home. 

As the town grew and people became acquainted with Mr. 
Reynolds he was much respected both for his upright Chris- 
tian character and his fearlessness in doing what he believed 
to be right, though they could not always understand his 

30 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


reasons or agree with him in many things. He was pro- 
nounced “set” in his ways and given the soubriquet of 
“deacon,” and as “the deacon” he was known by every one 
in Rosedale. 

And John was “set” in his ways: Slow to form an opin- 
ion, when once it was formed, he was about as movable as the 
rugged mountains around him. He made friends slowly and 
there was only one man in Rosedale who could call him an 
intimate friend. That man was Tom Long, or “Long Tom” 
as he was more commonly known. He had never married 
and came to this little village shortly after Mr. Reynolds, in 
fact his chief reason for coming was because he wished to 
be near his friend, for they had been friends through boy- 
hood, and side by side had borne the trials and hardships of 
the long dark civil war, and Tom had left his right arm on 
the bloody fields of Shiloh. Then when the fearful struggle 
at last ended the young comrades found they were bound too 
closely together to be long separated, and after John’s mar- 
riage it was decided that Tom should spend at least a part 
of the year with him. Since coming to Rosedale, however, 
he had slept in his store and taken his meals at Jack Win- 
ter’s. He had built up an excellent trade and despite his 
one arm he and his one clerk were managing a prosperous 
business. 

Tom and John were not unlike in disposition for Tom was 
fully as “set” in his way as was John and they not infre- 
quently had what they called friendly quarrels. But Tom 
Long, though considered a good moral man, was not a 
Christian. He was tall and thin with gray beard and hair 
and looked almost twenty years older than John, though 
really only a few years his friend’s senior. His speech, al- 
ways plain, was often tinged with sarcasm ; yet the possessor 
of a kind heart withal. 

Behold him then as he awaits the arrival of the committee, 
for it meets this afternoon to make a few final arrangements 
and the place of meeting is the back of Tom’s store, where 
a few empty goods boxes and nail kegs have been placed to 


31 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


accommodate the expected guests and they begin to saunter 
leisurely in about half an hour before the appointed time. 

“Hello; everybody here but the deacon,” remarked one 
gentleman depositing himself on a nail keg and helping him- 
self to the cigars, Tom had placed on the counter for the 
benefit of the committee. 

“Oh, but Bunn’s scotchin’ cause we ain’t goin’ to have no 
drinkin’ or gamblin’ on the ground,” he continued after a 
few puffs at his cigar. “Says the whole thing ’ll be a dead 
failure cause people’s always been used to havin’ such things 
at fairs and lots of ’em won ’t come when they find it out. ’ ’ 

“Of course, as usual, Bunn’s awful anxious for the peo- 
ple to have a good time and for the committee to make a 
success of the fair. He’s one o’ these unselfish critters that 
never thinks of number one, and of course we’re ever so 
much obliged to him, though I ’m thinkin ’ we ’ll have to stick 
to our agreement with John; John ain’t one to give up once 
he’s set his foot down,” said Tom Long. 

“Well, I don’t see as the deacon need to be so squeanish,” 
replied another. “I don’t go much on such things myself, 
but there’s lots that does and they’ll be disappointed as 
Bunn says, but the deacon owns the only respectable place 
to have it at, an’ so he can have thing’s purty much his own 
way.” 

“That’s not fair to John,” replied Tom quickly. “He 
never did have anything to do with such businesses and we 
have no right to expect him to have now.” 

“But he wouldn’t really be havin’ anything to do with 
it,” persisted the first speaker. “He could just a rented the 
grove to the committee without conditions and that would 
a throwed the responsibility on the committee.” 

“Well, my young friend,” replied Tom. “If you ever 
have the good luck to become acquainted with John Reyn- 
olds you won’t find him a man anxious to throw his own re- 
sponsibilities on other people’s shoulders (though I doubt 
said responsibilities would have been gratefully shouldered). 
No, sir. John knew about the kind o’ times we’d have if 
gambling was allowed and whisky too handy, so he just 


32 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


made his own terms and the rest of ns ’ll have to come to ’em 
or hunt another place for the fair, which you all know we 
won’t find, closer than three miles.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, we ’ll have to give in ; hut it did seem to me since the 
fair was for all kinds of people we ought to have all kinds 
of amusements. There’s Carl Newman now was countin’ on 
havin’ a fortune wheel. He’s willin’ to pay big for the 
privilege of having it, and wouldn’t hardly believe it when I 
told him ’twouldn’t he allowed. Said he never knew of a 
fair without something of the kind and I can’t think there ’d 
have been much drinkin’. Jack Winters is going to have 
a lunch stand and ice cream and such, so he’ll have to stay 
sober to look after that and Dan Everett ain’t touched a 
drop since his baby was buried, and they’re the only two 
around here that’s really quarrelsome when they’re drink- 
in’.” 

“What about Ca,rl Newman,” asked another. “I’d like 
to see him beat fer kickin’ up a muss when he’s drunk.” 

“And a fortune wheel wouldn’t keep him straight neither 
for he can gamble, drink, quarrel and run a fortune wheel 
all at once,” added Tom. 

“Oh, as fer Carl he’s quit drinkin’; didn’t you know? 
Well he has, fact is he had to or stand a good chance passin’ 
in his checks soon. You see Carl can’t stand it like some 
and the last few times he was on a spree he had the tremons 
so bad he nearly died. His wife couldn’t manage him and 
had to call the neighbors in. I was with him a time or two 
myself an’ its awful.” 

“Too bad,” said Tom. “Carl’s a good fellow if he’d let 
gamblin’ and rum alone.' But as I said it’s no use to say 
anything about havin’ such things at the fair, besides — but 
here comes John.” 

As John Reynolds approached there was a perceptable 
change in the positions and occupations of the different mem- 
bers of the committee. The man who had been smoking 
quietly threw his cigar into the stove, while another straight- 
ened his coat collar, another removed his hat and one gath- 


33 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 

ered himself from the counter where he had been comfort- 
ably reclining. 

After a hearty greeting and hand-shake all around John 
took the only real chair visible which had by silent consent 
been left for his use, and called the committee to order for 
business. 

Without tiring the reader with the meeting in detail we 
will say that the remaining business was speedily though 
wisely disposed of. The gentlemen who favored having 
gambling and whisky on the ground did not mention it after 
John’s arrival and as it only lacked two weeks until the 
time set for the fair it was decided to push things as rapidly 
as possible until everything was complete. 

Tom walked back to the shop with John after the commit- 
tee adjourned ; John rekindled his fire, gave the bellows a 
few vigorous pulls, thrust a piece of iron into the fire and 
then turned his attention to his friend who had seated him- 
self on a bench and was saying, “Yes, I think it’ll all go off 
fine, providing we have good weather nearly everybody 
round says they’re coming. I wasn’t much in for it at first 
but since it’s going to be, I’m anxious to have it go off all 
right.” 

“Oh, it’ll go off all right,” replied John. “The main ob- 
ject is to get the people together and give them a chance to 
talk over their different enterprises and learn what all is 
being done in our county. ’ ’ 

“I heard some of ’em sayin’ Bunn and Carl Newman’s a 
little put out cause they can’t have a gamblin’ and drinkin’ 
house or two,” said Tom. 

“So,” replied John reflectively, “and that’s what you’d 
been talking about when I went in. I supposed ’twas some- 
thing of the sort. Bunn ought to be thankful he’s allowed 
to keep his saloon open and sell drinks in town without want- 
ing to sell on the ground too. And it seems to me Newman 
isn’t far from his grave and had best be thinking of other 
things than gambling. I was with him about a month ago 
when he had the worst spell of delirium tremens I ever saw. 


34 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


I didn’t think he’d get through that time, and I don’t believe 
he could stand another.” 

‘‘They say he’s quit drinkin’ now though,” said Tom. 

“It’s to be hoped so,” replied John, taking his iron from 
the fire and giving it a mighty stroke with a hammer. 

“Well, he’ll have a mighty hard row to hoe for awhile,” 
resumed Tom. “I had a little experience that way myself 
you know when we was in the army. ’Twas when I was laid 
up with this arm, or rather when I was laid up without it,” 
corrected Tom grimly. ‘ ‘ They give it to me to kind o ’ lessen 
the pain and after I was well I kept at it till I saw I couldn’t 
stand it. You know something of the time I had breaking 
myself and since then I can’t help but feel sorry for a feller 
when I see him sober up and try to quit and then maybe 
go at it again harder than ever. I know just what he’s got 
to contend with.” 

“ It ’s hard to quit any bad habit, ’ ’ said John. ‘ ‘ But I sup- 
pose it’s harder to quit the drink habit on account of the ef- 
fect it has on the system, but the trouble with most folks is 
they try to do it all themselves instead of letting the Lord 
help them, as he wants to do. If people would just take the 
Lord at His word and let Him do for them what they can’t 
do for themselves they wouldn’t make such a mess of their 
lives as they do. There’s Carl now trying to save himself. 
Says he don’t aim to drink any more and I don’t suppose 
there’s a day passes but what he’s at one place or the other 
gambling and no doubt sooner or later he ’ll be tempted into 
drinking again, where if he’d only trust the Lord to help 
him and pay a little heed to His advice and not walk straight 
into temptation; he might come out all right yet. I know 
you reformed yourself, but it hadn’t got the hold on you it 
has on Carl. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Tom, shifting a little uneasily 
on his seat. “I’m thinkin’ the Lord helped me some or I 
shouldn’t have made it as easy as I did.” 

John dropped hammer and iron and stared at his friend 
in surprise. 


3.S 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

' “I know I’ve always claimed the honor of it myself and 
I don’t wonder at you being surprised but that preacher that 
comes here once in a while kind o’ gave me a shakin’ up last 
winter and some way I’m beginnin’ to see things different. 
I have an idee it’ll end in me joinin’ his church yet.” 

John came over to Tom and grasped his hand saying: 

‘ ‘ God bless you old boy. I hope it will ; I always thought 
you was too good a chap for the devil to get. ’ ’ 

“So I’m thinkin’ myself,” replied Tom smiling, although 
there was a mist in his eyes that almost hid his friend from 
view. “But I’ve always put it off you know and then Jokn 
most o’ the preachers we’ve had around here ain’t been what 
they might; you’ve always tried to hold up for them' 
though. ’ ’ 

“There aren’t many of us what we might be,” replied 
John. “Besides we ought to look above weak humanity for 
an example.” 

“I know, but someway when I can’t have faith in the 
man, I ain’t no use for the preacher, but this Mr. Rivers 
now he seems to be made o’ the right stuff. He lives right 
up to what he preaches, and I don’t believe he’d be afraid 
to meet the old Nick himself face to face and tell him what 
he thought of him.” 

“He’s got nothing to fear. He’s got the Lord on his side 
and so he can face anything,” replied John. 

“And what I like about him most is the way he comes 
down on the saloons,” continued Tom. “Bunn and Mack’s 
both heard of it; I believe Bunn was there and heard him 
once himself. Of course, they’re both down on him; give 
him fits behind his back, but it’s fun to see ’em git out o’ 
sight when they see him coming along the street. ’ ’ 

“It’s a degrading business,” said John, “and I reckon 
Mr. Rivers having seen inore of it than most people is what 
makes him so down on them.” 

Now it must be said that John did not altogether agree 
with some of Mr. Rivers’ views regarding the liquor traffic. 
John himself had given the matter little thought, but had 
always supposed the liquor dealers themselves were wholly 

. 36 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


to blame for the business, and that no one else had the 
right or power to interfere ; that people ought to have sense 
enough to stay away from them, and if they had not they 
deserved little pity. 

But Mr. Rivers believed it the solemn duty of every 
Christian to be doing the utmost in his power to 
exterminate this great evil. No one else, he insisted, was 
greatly interested in its overthrow, and that such a de- 
sirable event would only be brought to pass by Chris- 
tian people uniting and in one voice demanding it. 
He did not believe Christian men should bind themselves 
to any political party, but, united, should stand ready to 
suppprt the one pledged to the most good. In this way 
they could hope to rid their country of much evil and more 
effectually spread the Gospel — the true Christian’s highest 
aim. Fanatic? Well, may the Lord send us many such. 
But John could not accept such views. He had formed his 
opinions politically, over thirty years ago, and he did not 
believe in ‘‘turncoats.” He couldn’t let Tom know these 
things, however; not yet. It might prove a straw in his 
way and hold him back a while longer; so he added: 

“Yes, Mr. Rivers is all you think him, and more, and 
you just go ahead and lay in a good stock of religion. 
You’ll find it the best investment you ever made.” 

“I guess I will, John. I’ve always tried to live straight, 
but it takes more’n that I’m thinkin’ to make a man safe. 
But I must be goin’. I’ll just come round to the school- 
house Sunday. You have prayer-meetin’, don’t you?” 

“Yes, we have Sunday school and prayer-meeting every 
Sunday. We don’t have much of a crowd, but we hope 
it helps what does come. ’ ’ And after another hearty hand- 
shake the two friends parted, Tom walking toward his store, 
while John returned to his neglected iron. It was cold and 
the fire almost out; but little cared he, for as he rekindled 
the fire and thrust in the iron there was a happy smile on 
his face and a suspicion of moisture in his eyes. 

Fair-time came at last with ideal weather; all arrange- 
ments were perfect, and if any one missed the fortune wheel 


37 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


or liquor stand there were no complaints. The first three 
or four days passed pleasantly, and the crowds began to 
diminish somewhat. It was the greatest event in the his- 
tory of Rosedale, and people came from great distances 
in wagons, buggies and on horseback. There had been a 
balloon ascension, a ball game, several horse races and a 
bicycle race, all for the pure fun of it, with no betting, and 
the people had shown great appreciation, and on this, the 
next to the last day, Tom Long and John Reynolds stood 
near the entrance gates congratulating themselves on the 
general success of the fair. 

“I tell you, John, it’s going off fine. Everybody’s havin’ 
a good time; it’s paying in a money way, and ’ll be a help to 
the farmers and cattle raisers in lots o’ ways. There ain’t 
been nobody drunk, either, till to-day I noticed two or three 
kind o ’ tipsy, but they was quiet about it. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I’m very well satisfied so far,” replied John, who 
had been looking at something up the road while Tom was 
speaking. 

“What is it?” asked Tom, noticing his friend’s intent 
gaze, and following it, exclaimed: 

“It’s a horse and buggy, but I can’t see any one in it!” 

“Yes, there’s two men, or boys, in it. Watch ’em whip 
that horse, and he ’s already coming as fast as he can, ’ ’ said . 
John. 

“Drunk, both of ’em. I’ll bet my hat. Reckon we could 
stop ’em?” 

“We can try,” said John. “You get on the other side 
of the road and I’ll stay on this. We can likely get him 
by the bits. It’s the only chance I see.” 

Tom was across the road before John ceased speaking, 
and both men stood silently awaiting the arrival of the 
maddened and terrified animal. But just as it came within 
a few yards of where they stood a piece of white paper 
fluttered from the roadside beneath its feet. It seemed 
such a little thing, yet the horse swerved violently to one 
side and threw both occupants with terrible force against 
a pile of rock by the roadside. The buggy shafts were 


38 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


broken and the buggy itself overturned. It had all 
occurred so suddenly that only the very few persons near 
the gates knew anything about it, and the horse had 
kicked himself free of the harness and was well on his 
way back to town before these few recovered from the shock 
the dreadful occurrence gave them sufficiently to inves- 
tigate. 

It was Tom Long who first advanced toward the pile 
of rocks where lay the unconscious forms of the two boys, 
for such they proved to be. 

“Well, I’m afraid they’re done fur,” said he. “Here’s 
what ’s done the mischief. ’ ’ He continued picking up a half 
emptied bottle of whisky. 

“This one’s alive yet,” said John Reynolds, who had 
been stooping over the other boy. 

“Well, this one’s dead,” said Tom. “Look here,” and he 
pointed to a sharp piece of rock projecting just above the 
boy’s head, covered with blood, hair and brains. 

“Well, we’ve got to get them some place where the doctor 
can examine them,” said John. “I wonder if there’s any 
one here that knows them,” and John looked inquiringly 
at the crowd that was fast gathering. Tom had started 
in search of the physician and a place to take the boys for 
the examination. 

“Why, this is Jim Aikman,” said one man, indicating 
the dead young man. “Him and his mother an’ little sister 
lives up my way on a little farm Jim tends. His pa died 
last winter. Ain’t hurt bad. is he?” looking inquiringly at 
John. 

“Why, he’s dead,” answered John. 

“Not dead?” was the surprised reply. “Surely Jim ain’t 
dead,” stooping down to examine him more closely. 
“Well, if that ain’t a bloomin’ shame; it’ll kill his mother, 
shure. Jim wasn’t a bad boy, neither. I never knowed him to 
touch liquor of any kind. Don’t understand how he came 
to do it this time. Why, here’s Bob Wilds, too. He don’t 
live far from me,” continued the man, noticing for the first 


39 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


time the other boy, who was lying on the opposite side of 
the pile of rocks from his friend, 

‘‘I’m glad you know them both,” said John. “He’s not 
dead, but looks like he was pretty bad hurt. Maybe you 
could find some one to take them home and tell their 
folks?” suggested John. 

“It would be an onpleasant thing to do,” replied the 
man, meditatively. “Yes, a mighty onpleasant thing to do; 
but it’s got to be did, an’ I reckon now I’d as well do it as 
anybody. Yes. I’ll take ’em home,” he concluded. “Me 
and my folks come down in a spring wagon this mornin’, 
and my wife is goin’ to stay over night with her sister 
here, and the children, too; but I’ll just look around and 
hunt up another neighbor or two that’s here and we’ll take 
the poor boys home right away. They ain’t neither one of 
’em twenty years old yet, an’ if Bob lives I reckon this’ll 
be a lesson to him,” and the man departed in search of his 
friends. 

Tom returned shortly with the physician, and the boys 
were conveyed to a vacant corner of the art hall, where 
beds were being hastily prepared for them. 

The boy designated as Bob Wilds regained consciousness 
as they placed him on the bed. He half raised himself 
in the bed and had seen the lifeless form of his friend 
before it could be prevented. 

“Jim’s hurt, too. How bad is he hurt? Tell me quick,” 
as every one hesitated. 

The physician requested the people, with the exception 
of John Reynolds, to leave him alone with his patient, and 
when they were gone he told the boy quietly that his friend 
was dead, and John explained how it had occurred. 

“Oh, I know well enough how it happened,” said the 
boy, bitterly. “An’ I’d rather it would ’a bin me killed 
than Jim. I wasn’t drunk. You see we was drivin’ Jim’s 
colt. We’ve been a month breakin’ him an’ gettin’ him so 
we could drive him here. When we started we didn’t aim 
to drink a drop, but we wasn’t much acquainted with any- 
body down here but Jim Stubbs. He used to work for pa 


40 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


a few years ago, so we went round to see him a minute, 
and he was awful tickled to see us and insisted on givin’ 
us a treat — he called it. We drank a glass with him, and 
as I’ve bin used to takin’ a drink once in a while it didn’t 
hurt me, but that one glass made Jim wilder ’n two or three 
glasses ort to ’a’ done, and he had Stubbs put him up a 
bottle to take with him. I tried to get him not to drink 
it, but he would anyhow, and got wilder ’n ever. I took 
the lines away from him, intendin’ to manage the colt my- 
self, but Jim got hold o’ the whip, an’ after that I couldn’t 
do a thing.” 

“Well, never mind now; you’ve talked too much already 
I fear. Just let me have a look at that cut on your head. 
We’ll set your arm later.” 

The cut on the head was not serious, the arm and shoulder 
having received the brunt of the shock. 

“There, you’re all right now, my boy; but you’ve had 
a close call, and I would strongly advise you to give liquor 
a wide berth hereafter. It’s proved the ruin of many as 
fine a lad as you, one way and another.” 

“I know. Poor Jim; it’ll kill his mother, an’ some way 
I feel to blame. Jim wouldn’t ’a’ went to Bunn’s if I 
hadn’t, and he wouldn’t have drunk if I hadn’t.” 

“Well, you can’t help it now, and you are not to worry 
or you may bring on a fever. I’m going home with you 
myself when your neighbor comes and you are rested a 
little.” 

The neighbor arrived shortly, and the wounded boy was 
made as comfortable as possible in the back of his large 
spring wagon, while the dead one was placed near the front. 
Then with the physician, the owner of the conveyance and 
one other man the boys were started on their way home, 
the one to be buried and mourned for by a heart-broken 
mother and sister, and the other to recover only after a 
long illness, for fever set in, and it was six weeks before 
he at last arose from his bed a sadder but a much wiser 
boy. 


41 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


After seeing them started on their sad journey John wan- 
dered aimlessly around the grounds. He greatly deplored 
the recent accident, though he had said but little about it. 

“It^s dreadful, to be sure; still it’s a wonder we’ve got 
along so well,” he mused. “Ordinarily, on such occasions, 
every fellow that ever took a dram — and some that didn’t — 
thinks it their duty to get drunk, and there’s generally 
a row or two. I’m more than glad I stuck to it and didn’t 
let them sell whisky out here. I’d have felt to blame for 
this if I hadn’t. They say he was all his mother had to 
depend on since her husband died last winter. We’ll have 
to inquire after them occasionally and help them if they 
need it. My ! what a lot of trouble one little miss-step can 
cause. Hello, what’s this? Some o’ Jack Winters’ work 
I’ve no doubt. Wonder if he’s drinking now? If he is, 
we’ll have trouble in earnest.” 

John had been taking careful note of everybody and 
everything as he walked along; but it was not until he had 
gone almost around the grounds that he came across any- 
thing amiss. A short distance from the cattle pens, and 
in close proximity to Jack Winters’ stand, stood a low 
building made of narrow strips of timber some three inches 
apart. It had been unoccupied so far, and what it was 
originally intended for we can not say; but as John came 
in sight of it this evening he was surprised to notice quite 
a crowd around it, and some of the people seemed greatly 
amused at what was going on inside. 

John hastened to see what the new attraction was, and 
found it to be some half-dozen men and boys more or less 
intoxicated. Some of them were apparently enjoying the 
curiosity they were exciting, and were singing, dancing and 
telling jokes. But two were having a sharp quarrel in one 
corner of the room that seemed likely to end in a fight. But 
it was not this that had aroused John’s anxiety. Near the 
top of the building on a smooth board in large, red letters 
was printed this sign — “Bunn and McGregor Exhibit” — 
while just beneath it on a narrow shelf were a dozen or 
so beer and whisky bottles. 


42 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Of course, it^s Jack’s work,” continued John. “No- 
body else would think of such a thing. I’m afraid his love 
for fun ’ll cause him trouble some day.” 

He walked over to Jack’s stand, and was greatly relieved 
to find that fun-loving gentleman about his business per- 
fectly sober. Still his mind was unchanged as to the orig- 
inator of the Bunn and McGregor exhibit; so he said: 

“Say, Jack, don’t you think you’re carrying it a little 
too far putting up that notice over there?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, deacon,” replied Jack, a gleam of 
mischief coming into his blue eyes. “I thought all our bus- 
iness enterprises ought to be represented, and as Bunn an’ 
Mack kept a sendin’ out samples so promiscus, I thought 
I’d just get ’em all together an’ label ’em so people ’d 
know where they come from.” 

“But you know they don’t like you anyway. Jack — 
Stubbs and Mack especially — and if they should see this 
they might cause trouble,” said John. 

“I ain’t afraid o’ the whole gang of ’em, deacon; but 
Stubbs won’t cause no trouble today, for he was the first 
chap put in there, and there I mean for him to stay till he 
sobers up enough to talk decent around women. As for 
Mack, he’s never been out here yet, and I don’t reckon 
he’ll come now, and I’m not afraid of him if he does. I’ll 
pay the rent on the buildin’, deacon, so it shan’t cost ’em 
a cent, so I don’t see as they’ve got any kick a ’cornin’. 
Besides, some o’ them fellers was gettin’ rackety, an’ I 
think we’ve had accidents enough,” added Jack, more 
soberly. 

“Well, if your way of getting rid of them don’t prove 
more ‘rackety’ I’ll be thanful,” said John, trying to decide 
whether he should leave Jack to manage his new enter- 
prise to suit himself or insist on having the sign taken 
down. 

“You see, deacon, I ’lowed if Bunn and Mack heard what 
we was doin’ with their boozy customers they’d quit and 
shut up till the fair is over. It’s only two days more, but 
them two days is likely to prove interestin’, ’cause every- 


43 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


body, myself included, has stayed sober about as long as 
they can, considerin’ the importance of the occasion. But 
if Bunn an’ Mack could be induced to shut up we might 
manage to live without it a day or so yet.” 

“Have it your way then,” said John. “I won’t inter- 
fere as long as you keep straight yourself.” 

“Oh, you needn’t be oneasy ’bout me, deacon. I ain’t 
time for nothin’ o’ the sort now. I may go in for a little 
whiz after it’s all over; but it’s about as much fun lookin’ 
after the other chaps as ’tis to need lookin’ after myself.” 

“It’s a mighty risky kind of fun anyway. Jack, and don’t 
always end like you expect it to, either,” said John, as he 
walked away. 

“Been viewin’ the new entries?” asked Tom Long, com- 
ing across John a moment later. 

“Yes, and I’m afraid it will cause trouble yet,” replied 
John. 

“No, it won’t,” said Tom. “I think Bunn ’ll stop his 
part of it when he finds it out, and I’m goin’ to town right 
away and will see that he finds it out,” and Tom started 
on his mission smiling. 

But the news Tom found had preceded him, and Bunn 
was already aware of his notoriety at the fair grounds, and 
great was his indignation not only at being pointed out as 
the maker of drunkards, but at having his name coupled 
with that of such a man as was his competitor. He declared 
his intention of going at once and removing the disgraceful 
sign and thrashing who ever put it up ; but upon being told 
who was the author of the joke he changed his mind, and 
seeing Tom Long sauntering along the street, he resolved 
today his grievance before him, and beg him, as a member 
of the committee, to interfere in his behalf. 

Tom listened to his tale of woe, keeping his face straight 
with difficulty, for he had enjoyed the joke almost as much 
as Jack himself. 

“Well,” said he, gravely, when Bunn had finished, “I 
don’t see that I can help you any. You can’t expect folks 


44 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


out there to let your customers run loose and cut up any 
kind o’ capers they please.” 

“Well, of course not,” said Bunn, a little taken aback 
at Tom’s cool way of treating what he considered an insult 
to himself. “I ain’t complainin’ ’cause they locked ’em up, 
if ’twas necessary, but they needn’t have put up any names, 
and especially they needn’t have put mine up with Mack’s, 
makin’ it look like I was as bad as him,” 

“Ain’t you sold any whisky to-day?” asked Tom. 

“Why, yes, I’ve sold some, but I don’t think anybody 
got enough to make them drunk. I always advise my cus- 
tomers not to get drunk,” said Bunn. 

“But they don’t always take your advice,” said Tom. 
“That boy that got killed was drunk, and he got his stuff 
at your place. Liquor is about the same thing, I ’m thinkin ’, 
whether it comes from your place or Mack’s, and you 
needn’t blame Jack for pilin’ your customers an’ Mack’s 
in together. He couldn’t tell ’em apart; besides, there 
was only one empty room, and if he wanted a little fun 
for his trouble — why, you know that’s Jack. Tell you 
what I’ll do, though. If you’ll shut up your saloon and not 
sell another drink while the fair’s goin’ on I’ll see that your 
name’s took down after today. If you don’t, it stays up 
there along side o’ Mack’s till the thing’s over.” 

“But the trade’s gettin’ better, and I’d make more money 
the rest o’ the week,” persisted Bunn. 

“Which means we’d likely have more accidents and 
fusses,” replied Tom, resolutely. “No, if you don’t shut 
up till the fair’s over I shan’t interfere, and John’s of the 
same notion.” 

Bunn thought a moment before consenting, but as Tom 
started to go on he said: 

“Well, I reckon money ain’t everything, and you can 
call it a go.” 

“All right. I’ll go out and see about it,” replied Tom, 
feeling he had made a good bargain. 

“Now if Mack could be induced to make the same agree- 
ment we might rest in peace the rest o’ the week; but he 


45 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


ain ’t so careful of his reputation as Bunn is, and I don T sup- 
pose heTl do it.’^ 

And Tom’s surmises proved correct, for when McGregor 
heard of what had occurred and of his competitor’s agree- 
ment he gave a satisfied chuckle and swore he wouldn’t 
close if they filled every building on the ground with drunk- 
ards and wrote his name on them all. He was in business 
to make money, and not for the good of the community, as 
was Bunn, and he didn’t intend to show the white feather 
now there was a chance to make a little extra. So the 
words on the building were changed to “The McGregor 
Exhibit,” and during the remaining two days it was well 
tenanted, though there were no more accidents or casu- 
alities. 

“But I think it’s all owin’ to our roundin’ ’em up in 
time,” said Jack. “A few hours in that sweat-box ’ll 
take the fight out o’ the best of ’em.” 

He had kept his promise not to drink while the fair was 
going on, but after Saturday considered himself free to 
do as he chose. He had made considerable money during 
the week in spite of his well-known free-heartedness. Many 
of his acquaintances declared he gave away more than he 
sold. This, of course, was not true, but Jack had made it 
a point during the entire week never to let any one go 
hungry if he knew it. If they had the money to pay for 
what they ate, all right ; if not, all right anyway ; and when 
he saw a child looking wishfully at the tempting array of 
candies and nuts he never failed to present it with some 
of the coveted goodies. When joked about this weakness, 
as he frequently was, he would laugh and say: 

‘ ‘ Oh, well, money won ’t stick to me anyway, and the more 
I give away the less I’ll have to blow in myself, besides, 
I like to watch ’em eat the stuff. Some o’ their daddies 
ain’t able to buy it for ’em, and some’s too plagued stingy.” 

Still, when the week ended Jack found himself several 
dollars ahead. Two of Jack’s friends remained in town 
Saturday night, and after breakfast with Jack they all 
stepped in at Mr. Bunn’s for a drink. On Sunday? Oh, 


46 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY: 


yes. But I thought saloons had to close on Sundays. Not 
necessarily. We believe there is such a law tucked away 
somewhere, but it’s seldom enforced, and but few people in 
Rosedale knew of its existence. 

So, my friend, if you have any prudish prejudices against 
visiting a saloon on Sunday, you may stop outside until we 
come out. We won’t be long. 

“Something extra now, Stubbs,” said Jack, as he walked 
to the bar followed by his friends. “I’ve done without 
longer than you have, which ain ’t sayin ’ much I know. Still 
I feel like treatin’ myself kind o’ nice over it. Yes, that’ll 
do. Come on, gentlemen, here’s luck to the fair in general, 
and the Bunn and Mack exhibit in particular.” 

Stubbs did not relish Jack’s free and easy speech, and 
resented particularly his reference to himself as connected 
with the Bunn and McGregor exhibit. He had been drink- 
ing almost continually since his release from the pen, and 
his brain was not very clear this morning, and he was 
thirsting for revenge of some sort on Jack, and was trying 
to think how best to accomplish it while Jack and his 
friends were drinking. 

“Here, Friend Stubbs, fill us up another. That was only 
a drop after so long a dry spell.” 

“It’s a-plently for me,” said one of the men; “I don’t 
want any more.” 

“Just two then, Stubbs. George, here, is a kind of a new 
hand, but Pete and me can stand any amount.” 

Jack drained his second glass and turned to go, when 
Stubbs cried angrily: 

“Hold on here; you ain’t paid yet.” 

Jack turned in surprise. 

“What the dickens do you mean? You know I settle 
with Bunn every month. ’ ’ 

“I mean we’ve lost so much doin’ credit business we’ve 
quit it, an’ cash is the go now,” replied Stubbs. 

“You never lost any on me,” retorted Jack, “and what’s 
more, I believe you’re lying about this cash business, though 
I ain’t next your game. But make out your bill and I’ll 

47 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVEEY. 

settle.” He resumed smiling : “We don’t want a row here 
on Sunday. ’T would ruin Bunn’s reputation, to say noth- 
ing of yours an’ mine.” 

Stubbs made out the bill and held it toward Jack, saying: 

“There’s what you owe. Now shell out quick.” 

His words drew Jack’s attention to himself as he meant 
they should, and he dropped the paper to the floor instead 
of placing it in Jack’s hand. Supposing he had dropped it 
himself or been the cause of it, Jack stooped to pick it up, 
and Stubbs saw the opportunity he had longed and planned 
for. Seizing a beer bottle, he struck his unsuspecting victim 
a heavy blow on the temple just as he was rising. 

His friends sprang forward, but Jack fell before they 
could reach him, and Stubbs had taken refuge behind the 
bar. One man stooped to examine Jack’s wound and one 
strode to the bar and said: 

“Jim Stubbs, you’re a damned coward, an’ I dare you 
out here for a fair fight.” 

Stubbs remained sullenly silent, and the man attending 
Jack said: 

“Oh, come here, Pete, an’ let’s git Jack out o’ here and 
see to him first. We can settle with that sneak afterwards.” 

“I reckon you’re right, pard; but it seems to me sich 
eussedness ortn’t to have to wait long.” 

“It can wait till we ’tend to Jack,” was the reply; and 
together they carried him through the back door to his 
restaurant and placed him on his cot. 

“That was a devil of a blow, and it’s swellin’ like the 
dickens,” said Pete. “But ’taint a very deep cut, an’ I 
reckon he’s only stunned an’ ’ll come to directly. You git 
some water, while I fix some bandages out o’ these hanker- 
shers an’ we’ll have ’im patched up in no time. That was 
about the rottenest thing I ever saw. Stubbs must ’a’ been 
more’n half boozy er he’d a counted on payin’ fer this.” 

“Mebbe he aimed to kill him,” suggested George. 

“Well, he ain’t done it then. See?” as Jack now opened 
his eyes. He looked puzzled a moment, and then with a 
grim smile said ; 


48 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


“So that was his game, was it? Well, two can play it, 
I reckon.” 

“You just keep cool. Jack. I’m going back directly to 
settle with that fellar myself. I hated puttin’ it off so long, 
but George ’lowed we’d best ’tend to you first,” said Pete, 
as he finished bathing the wound. 

“You’ll do nothin’ o’ the kind,” said Jack, quickly, reply- 
ing to the first part of his friend ’s speech. ‘ ‘ I allow nobody 
to pay my debts but myself. It ’ll keep a few days, I reckon, 
but mind. I’ll consider it as an insult if you go to pitchin’ 
into Stubbs. I’m able to settle my own scores yet, an’ I 
aim to do it. I’ll be over this in a day or so, I reckon. 
Here, let’s have a look at it before you put that thing on. 
Hand me the glass, George. Ah, yes. That’ll leave me a 
strong reminder of Stubbs’ regards, I’m thinkin’. But it’s 
only borrowed;” and a look came over his handsome face 
that was not good to see. 

“Now, Jack, if you won’t let me settle with Stubbs for 
you, you’d better drop it. I know you’re equal to a half- 
dozen in a fair fight, but you don’t know how to fight a 
sneak an’ had better stay away from there.’’ 

“That’s what I think,” said George. “They’ve all got a 
spite at you over that little joke, an’ Mack’s as sneakin’ as 
Stubbs. ’ ’ 

“I ain’t afraid o’ the whole outfit, an’ some day I’ll give 
a song and dance that’ll leave ’em something to pitch 
bottles about. There ain’t but one man in this town I’m 
afraid of, an’ that’s the deacon. Pact,” he said, as his 
friends looked their surprise. “The deacon’s generally 
mild as a lamb, but when he looks right square at you and 
tells you to do a thing you generally conclude to do it. 

“A couple o’ years ago we didn’t have much law here and 
depended mostly on ourselves to keep peace and settle dis- 
putes. Well, one day I got on a whiz and started out to 
have a good time. I had my gun in my hand and ordered 
everybody I came across to git inside, and they got. It 
was fun to see ’em go. I made a clean sweep till I came 
to the deacon’s shop. He was fixin’ something outside and 


49 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


paid no attention to me. That kind o ^ riled me, as I knowed 
he^d seen me comin\ I raised my gun an’ told him ’twas 
time to go in and rest. He stopped hammerin’ an’ looked at 
me, but didn’t seem to understand my remarks, so I repeated 
’em and made ’em more forcible. Then he saw what I 
meant, but instead o’ doin’ what I ’lowed any respectable 
deacon ort to do under the circumstances, he jist raised the 
hammer he’d been usin’ and knocked my gun clean across 
the road; then afore I could move he’d waltzed me into 
his shop and locked me up. ’Twas awful humiliatin’, but 
had all come so sudden an’ unexpected I don’t see yet how 
I could ’a’ helped it. Then while his blood was up he jist 
walked around to Mack’s and told him if ever I killed 
anybody when I was drinkin’ he’d head a percession to 
lynch him, and to this day I can’t pick up courage enough 
to get on another drunk.” 

“ ’Twas kind o’ disgustin’, bein’ treated so by a deacon,” 
said Pete. “But you keep still now a spell. I’m goin’ to 
stay with you till you’re on your pegs agin.” 

It only took Jack a day to get on his pegs, but it was 
two weeks before he removed the bandage, disclosing a 
red scar that extended from the edge of his hair almost to 
his eye. 

Jack was not one to bear malice, and by the time his 
wound was healed his anger had cooled somewhat, and he 
no longer wished to kill Stubbs, or even to hurt him 
seriously. Yet he was resolved that some time, somehow he 
would pay him for that cowardly blow. 

Disgusting creatures, are they not ? Why shock the 
respectable public with their doings? And yet we have 
some inklings that gentlemen (?), and even statesmen (?), 
sometimes indulge themselves to as great an extent as our 
humble characters. But their indulgence must, of course, 
be hushed up for the sake of society or some party or other, 
else we might not be reduced to such straits for characters. 
Yet even these same disgusting creatures have souls to save 
or lose, if they have no reputation, and it is for the human 
soul chiefly that we plead. 


50 


CHAPTER III. 


In the most fashionable resident part of the city where 
Paul Rivers had gone lived the Bellmonts, a family of three, 
consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Bellmont and a maiden aunt of 
the former. Mr. and Mrs. Bellmont had until a few years 
ago resided in New York City, while the aunt. Miss Alice 
Bellmont, had lived on what was known as the old Bell- 
mont place on the Hudson, a fine old Colonial mansion, sur- 
rounded by acres and acres of rich land, much of which 
was still forest. William Bellmont was a genial, good- 
natured man of thirty, with an unusually keen sense of the 
ridiculous. He had lost both parents while quite young, 
and had been taken to Bellmont Place by his aunt and 
brought up in a thoroughly old-fashioned New England 
way, and knew but little of the world or worldly ways until 
he left college and went to New York City to study law 
under an old friend of his father. 

From his father, who had lived in New York city at the 
time of his death, William inherited a comfortable fortune, 
and he was also the only heir to his aunt’s valuable estates. 
These facts alone would have made him a desirable acquisi- 
tion to society ; but William was also the possessor of a 
handsome face and figure, which added greatly to his pop- 
ularity, at least among the younger ladies. So when he went 
to the city he did not want for social favors, and before 
a year had passed he was engaged to Mr. Burten’s daughter, 
a beautiful young lady called Isabelle, the only living child 
of the great lawyer and manufacturer, and every one called 
it a good match for both. 

Isabelle was a member of a church near the heart of that 
great city, and shortly after their engagement she had 
expressed a wish that William belong to it too. He had 

51 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


always had a deep respect and reverence for the Bible, 
inculcated into his mind when little more than an infant 
by his mother, and nourished and trained later by his aunt. 
Yet he had never made a profession of faith. But when 
Isabelle had suggested the matter to him he began to think 
seriously of it. He naturally supposed that her words were 
prompted by a sincere desire for his welfare; that she 
wished him to become a Christian that their lives might be 
more in harmony and their interests one. Her light way of 
speaking he set down to backwardness in speaking of such 
matters. He had noticed this backwardness in older Chris- 
tians than Isabelle. So he resolved he would be a Christian. 
Why not ? He had always meant to be, and what time more 
fitting than now, when he was preparing to take upon him- 
self new duties and responsibilities? 

And William had done so. Then with his changed nature 
came the missionary spirit or longing to help others, and 
he thought of the great good he and Isabelle might do with 
their great wealth. He resolved to give up his law studies. 
He had never liked it, and had begun its study more because 
his aunt thought he should learn some trade or profession, 
and this had been the first thing offered him. But now 
he would give it up, and he and Isabelle would constitute 
themselves missionaries to the poor of their city. He won- 
dered a little how Isabelle, being a Christian, had been 
content to lead the gay life she had hitherto led. He meant 
to have a talk with her and tell her of his new experiences 
and intentions, but he had insisted upon an early wedding, 
and whenever he called had found her so full of the wed- 
ding, her trousseau and the wedding journey that he saw no 
chance for a serious conversation, and wondered why people 
couldn’t get married without so much fuss. He postponed 
the talk until after the marriage, and a few weeks before 
that event surprised and pleased her by uniting with her 
church. 

William had wished to spend the first few weeks of his 
married life at Bellmont, but Isabelle would be content with 
nothing but a trip to Europe. So to Europe they went, 

52 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


and when they returned, instead of the quiet life of service 
to the needy William had planned, Isabelle insisted upon the 
life she had been accustomed to leading. It was foolish 
to grow old and prosy simply because they were married. 
It was their duty to fill the place in society to which their 
birth and wealth entitled them. What if they were Chris- 
tians? Many of the most conscientious Christians were in 
society. 

She was not bad-natured, and with different training 
would have made a most lovable woman. She laughed at 
what she termed William’s eccentricities, went with him 
slumming when she found it convenient, and cajoled him 
into attending her to balls and theaters, promising to reform 
when she grew old and ugly. It was mostly old or ugly per- 
sons who were so particular about such things. 

Vfilliam had found it easier to submit than to resist. Then, 
too, he had known her habits before he had married her; 
he should have objected then if he intended doing so at all. 
It was too late now, and William actually persuaded himself 
for a time that he was doing right in leading an idle, 
butterfly life. 

So two years passed. Then their baby was born, a deli- 
cate little girl that only lived two days. Isabelle’s health 
seemed to be declining after this, and her physician advised 
a change of climate and a glass or two of wine daily. 

Before starting on their travels William and Isabelle 
spent a week at Bellmont to bid Miss Bellmont good-bye. 
William had exhausted his persuasive powers trying to 
induce his aunt to accompany them; but she refused to 
do so at that time, and they had journeyed from place to 
place until they came to this city. Isabelle was so capti- 
vated with the beautiful scenery and healthful climate that 
she declared herself worn out traveling and was resolved to 
live there. They could never find a more healthy or 
beautiful location. It was just the right distance from 
the beautiful snow-capped Rockies, which could be seen 
on a clear day rising above the Western horizon. The plain 
sloped gently to the East, until it finally lost itself in the 

53 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


grassy prairies of the Middle West. The country for miles 
around was noted for its health- giving springs. 

William had bought a luxurious home, and here for over 
three years they had lived. 

Shortly after Mr. and Mrs. Bellmont located there, Miss 
Bellmont’s two old servants died. They had been on the 
place ever since she could remember, and she found man- 
aging her large estates without them a greater burden than 
she cared to assume at her age, and she decided to let it 
and live with her nephew. 

This step, however, was decided upon with great mis- 
giving on the part of Miss Bellmont. Having always lived 
at her quiet country home, she dreaded leaving it for an 
ambitious, growing city, where all was rush, noise and con- 
fusion. But the old place was lonely since the death of 
the two servants, who had been friends and companions as 
well. Then, too, she occasionally received such doleful 
letters from William, describing their trials and tribulations 
with untrained servants, that were worse, since Isabelle of 
late was so frequently ill or indisposed. In short, they had 
about decided to rent the house and board. Now Miss Bell- 
mont had a horror of boarding-houses for married folks, 
and William touched the right chord. She could not have 
loved an only son more than William, and since he was all 
she had in the world she resolved to brave the unpleasant- 
ness of city life and live with him, and here in this great, 
wicked city she had lived nearly six months. 

Miss Bellmont was a few inches above the average height, 
with keen, black eyes, and hair that was just turning gray. 
Her movements and speech were usually decided, if not 
sharp ; but she was kind-hearted, and the poor, among whom 
she went often, loved and respected her, although she was 
likely to call them careless, or even lazy, if they were so. 

Her experience up to the time she came to the city had 
been confined to a very few poor families in the neighbor- 
hood and an occasional tramp; but she knew there were 
many destitute people in large cities, and she resolved to 
help the poor in her city all she could. 


54 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


To say she was frequently shocked and disgusted by the 
poverty and vice she encountered would be putting it 
mildly, and many a less resolute person would have given 
up in despair. But Miss Bellmont was not one to give up 
once she was convinced of her duty, and she believed it 
the duty of every child of God to help the poor and ignorant 
in every way possible. 

William helped and encouraged her, though he frequently 
ridiculed her attempts to civilize the West, as he called it. 

Isabelle no longer made a pretense of interesting herself 
in such things, and while claiming to be perfectly well, she 
frequently had headaches and attacks of nervousness that 
were growing worse so rapidly that Miss Bellmont was 
alarmed. Isabelle had taken her place again in society, 
and was one of its most popular leaders until lately, when 
she had been obliged to cancel several engagements, but 
would not acknowledge herself ill. 

William had gradually ceased to accompany her to these 
various places of amusement, until now he flatly refused 
altogether. 

It would be difficult to define William’s thoughts and feel- 
ings at this time. He had often tried to do so himself, but 
gave it up in despair. He was thoroughly disgusted with 
the social world in which they lived ; also with the churches 
they had attended. What was the matter, he wondered. 
He felt he was living an idle, purposeless life when it was 
in him to do something far different if only he knew how 
or where to begin. He had tried to explain his thoughts to 
his pastor, intending to ask his advice and assistance; but 
before he had succeeded in making his meaning clear he was 
slapped on the back, told he was a good fellow, and not 
to worry. Christians were not expected to be martyrs now- 
a-days, and he was doing all that was expected of him. 
William had said no more, and his pastor often wondered 
afterward at his irregularity at services. 

He was becoming interested in the work his aunt was 
doing, and enjoyed helping her in spite of the light way he 
invariably spoke of it. 


55 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


It had taken Miss Bellmont some time to bring order and 
system into the chaotic household she found on her arrival, 
for Isabelle had gladly turned the entire management of the 
establishment over to her. She had reduced the two dozen 
servants Isabelle had thought indispensable down to six, 
and these, with her capable supervision, Isabelle admitted 
gave better satisfaction than the whole retinue had done 
before. It was only after the household was thoroughly 
reorganized that Miss Bellmont found time to begin her 
work among the needy, and her first visit was interesting 
and instructive in more ways than one. Needless to say, she 
found ample scope for the exercise of all her talents, and, 
as before stated, was frequently shocked by the wickedness 
and utter depravity of many whom she met, not only in 
the slums of the city, but in what was considered the best 
business part of it. 

Here in the very heart of the city almost every other 
building was a liquor house of some sort — great palaces of 
sin, built with broken hearts and blighted lives upon a foun- 
dation of lost souls, and ornamented with the bread and 
clothes of hungry and naked children, they stand monuments 
to men’s lusts and avarice, and a fearful blight on the fair 
name of America. 

Music of some sort was usually to be heard at these places 
on afternoons and Sundays, and women standing in the door- 
ways to attract the crowd, and since many of the proprietors 
of said places had found they could greatly increase their 
trade, as well as their income, by gratifying the brutal pas- 
sions their liquors had augmented or aroused, there was not 
infrequently to be found back of the saloons brothel houses, 
worse, if possible, than the gilded death-traps in front. 
And at these elegant drinking parlors many of the most 
prominent men of the city — church members if you please — 
stopped daily, or at least frequently, to enjoy a social glass 
with a friend, and would have resented any intimation that 
it was wrong. 

Children going to and from school must see and hear what 
was going on, and often stopped to listen to some coarse 

56 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


jest or vulgar soug. All this seemed dreadful to Miss Bell- 
mont, but it was not here that her work lay, but in the most 
unpretentious part of the city, among the intensely igno- 
rant and poor. There the miserable hovel or basement took 
the place of the grand palace on Broadway, and a squeaky 
violin was heard instead of the piano. But they were all 
upon the same common level with the same purpose in view 
— that of making money out of their fellow creature ’s weak- 
ness, ignorance or vice. 

So it was into this last-named labyrinth of woe that Miss 
Bellmont plunged with her usual ability and determination, 
but at the end of a few weeks began to fear she lacked the 
patience to persevere in her chosen work. It did seem to 
her that after she had done so much for them and tried so 
hard to teach them the folly of living from day to day only 
to gratify vicious appetites, or indulge in foolish and wicked 
pleasures, that she should be able to see some change for 
the better in the people among whom she had been working. 
But from her point of view there were few encouraging 
signs, and one day while on her weekly rounds when she 
found one man at home the worse for drink, she read him a 
very personal lecture on men who spent their wages for 
drink, while their families starved, for the children were 
without food and the mother ill. Her sharp words, how- 
ever, were modified by a well filled basket of food. 

The very next place she called she found two women 
drunk and quarreling. This proved more than she could 
endure, and she turned and walked away, grim and speech- 
less. It was bad enough for a man to drink, but a woman — 

But when she related her experiences to William, as she 
usually did, he only laughed and said: 

“Well, aunt, I don’t know that it is any greater sin for 
a woman to drink than it is for a man. In the Bible we 
don’t find the punishment prescribed for man, and then 
another added if it happens to be a woman.” 

“Well, it’s bad enough, either man or woman,” replied 
his aunt. “I did not know* there could be so much wicked- 
ness in one city, and there is no effort made to stop it, either. 

57 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


What few laws we have are not enforced. The saloons are 
open Sundays, holidays and all the time.’’ 

“Of course they are,” agreed William. 

“Well, why is it allowed?” persisted Miss Bellmont. “Is 
it not the duty of the police to prevent such? Why do 
they not see that the laws are obeyed and saloons closed on 
holidays, and fighting and drunkenness prevented?” 

“My dear aunt,” said William, “our police force, for all 
its blue coats and brass buttons, is only a branch of common 
humanity, and as prone to mistakes as other mortals. It 
probably does not report or try to prevent crimes of this 
kind because it has not been instructed to do so, and until 
it is, will not likely trouble itself greatly about it.” 

“But I supposed it to be their duty to do so, and it seems 
to me they are very unprincipled and unpatriotic to permit 
such gross violation of laws,” said Miss Bellmont, with en- 
ergy. 

“Well, that depends on how you look at it,” replied 
William coolly. “You see there are so many kinds of prin- 
ciples and patriotism now-a-days it might puzzle a wiser 
head than that possessed by our average policeman to dis- 
tinguish among them.” 

“There can be but one kind of patriotism at least,” said 
Miss Bellmont, sharply. “Patriotism makes one quick to 
see his country’s mistakes and dangers and causes him to 
do his utmost to arouse public opinion against them.” 

“For once, aunt, you are wrong,” replied William, smil- 
ing. “That’s the old Clay-Webster-Lincoln brand of pa- 
triotism, and has long since been shelved. In its stead we 
have a kind that prompts us to follow public opinion after 
it has been formed either by liquor dealers. Mormons or 
anything else that may take a notion to do so. Then we 
have a kind that prompts its possessors to blow themselves 
and each other up, cripple some people and scare others to 
death on fourth of July and other similar occasions. Then 
there is the very convenient and accommodating sort that 
permits its possessor to please the man with the most money 
or political pull, and it is with this last named kind that 


58 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


our modern politician is usually filled and I don’t see that 
we have any right to blame our policemen if they follow 
where our higher officials lead.” 

“Well, it is dishonest in either case,” said Miss Bellmont 
decidedly, “and men who deliberately betray a trust and 
gain money by it are no better than thieves and ought to 
be in prison. That is my mind.” 

“No doubt you are right; and that reminds me — I saw 
Nora today and she said if you had any plain sewing to 
do she would be glad to have it. The ” 

“What is that about Nora? Wants work, does she?” 

“That Pat’s been drinking again I suppose,” broke in 
Isabelle, who had been half asleep on a sofa, and had paid 
no attention to the conversation until Nora’s name was 
mentioned. 

“I was saying,” resumed William, “that the bank where 
Pat has his money has failed and every cent he and Nora 
had saved is gone, together with several thousands belong- 
ing to other persons. The cashier is also gone. Pat is 
naturally much discouraged as they had saved nearly enough 
to buy a little home and start Pat in business, and Nora 
wishes to do all she can to cheer him up, I suppose. She 
said as the baby was old enough not to be much trouble she 
thought she would try sewing. She said you and aunt 
used to like her sewing and perhaps would have some to 
do, and I promised to ask.” 

“Nora was a neat seamstress, I remember, when she was 
with you at Bellmont Place before you came here, and I 
think I can find her some work,” said Miss Bellmont, 
promptly. 

“Well, I can’t say I pity Nora much,” said Isabelle. 
“She had as good a place here as any girl could want and 
I told her what she’d come to when she left to marry that 
Pat O^Rien. He drank before they were married and if 
he doesn’t go at it again it will surprise me. I haven’t any 
sewing to do just now, and if I had I don’t see that Nora 
has any right to depend on me just because she was my 
maid a few years.” 


59 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


‘'Well, my dear, there’s no cause to excite yourself,” 
said William, for Isabelle had raised herself on the lounge 
and her face looked flushed and angry. “Nora simply 
wanted to know if you had the sewing, of course if you 
haven’t it’s alright. Nora didn’t seem very much dis- 
couraged; she thinks they can soon save enough again to 
buy the house they had in view.” 

“Nora was lighthearted,” mused Miss Bellmont, who 
had a warm place in her heart for the good-natured, sunny 
tempered Irish girl who had spent the week at Bellmont as 
Isabelle’s maid. 

“Yes, Nora was as good a maid as I ever had,” admitted 
Isabelle, rather reluctantly, “and she was just beginning 
to learn my ways when she must go and marry that Pat 
O’Rien. He used to drink and act dreadfully, but of course 
he made her think he’d quit and I guess he did, but I’ve 
expected all the time to hear of him beginning again, and 
if he does she needn’t expect any sympathy from me for I 
warned her well. 

“If Pat’s been drinking, Nora didn’t mention it,” said 
Bellmont. 

“No, she wouldn’t want me to know it if he* was,” per- 
sisted Isabelle. “Nora for all her seeming good nature is 
proud and stubborn at times, and would dislike having to 
admit I was right about Pat.” 

“What makes you so sure Pat is drinking or will do so? 
Many men do quit drinking and I see no reason why Pat 
should not, and really, Isabelle, you speak as though you 
would be glad if he should drink again,” said William, 
impatiently, and wondering for the hundredth time in the 
last few months what was coming over his wife. 

He knew she had never sympathized with what she termed 
the lower class, nor exerted herself in any way to assist 
them, but she never until recently had permitted herself 
to make a vulgar or unladylike speech. Judge then of his 
surprise when she exclaimed, with unusual vigor: 


60 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 

“Well, then, I would be glad. It would serve her right 
for leaving me as she did, and I hope she’ll live to re- 
pent it.” 

“Quite a charitable speech, I must say,” said William, 
coolly, but his face showed he was puzzled as well as dis- 
pleased. 

Isabelle arose from the sofa as she spoke and had left 
the room wthout replying to Bellmont’s remark. 

“I’m afraid, William, your wife is not well. She has 
not seemed like herself since I came,” said his aunt. 

“That is it then,” said William, his face clearing. “I was 
stupid not to have thought of it sooner.” And he hastened 
to follow Isabelle to her room, but he found the door locked, 
and she refused to open it, saying she was quite well but 
did not wish to be disturbed. 

She did seem quite herself at dinner and as she insisted 
that she was so, and disliked having her health referred to 
in any way the subject was dropped. 


61 


CHAPTER IV. 


The next day being Sunday, Isabelle and Miss Bellmont 
came down to breakfast, dressed for church. William sel- 
dom attended church since the conversation with the pas- 
tor, before referred to. Miss Bellmont had tried to con- 
vince him he was doing wrong, but with no visible effect. 
Isabelle had scolded with no better success and in order to 
avoid an argument on the subject on Sunday mornings he 
usually arose before the ladies, breakfasted alone and went 
for a stroll. 

“Has Mr. Bellmont breakfasted, James?” Isabelle asked, 
as they seated themselves at the table. 

“Yes, ma’am,” was the reply. “He said it was such a 
pleasant morning he would take a stroll in the parks before 
the sun got hot. and probably would not return until time 
for lunch.” 

“Always some excuse you see,” said Isabelle, as James 
finished serving and left the room. “I don’t see why Wil- 
liam can’t like Mr. Spruce. Everyone else does; I really 
think he stays away to spite me. Yes, I do,” she re- 
peated, noticing her listener’s look of doubt. “You see 
when we were first married William had all sorts of un- 
reasonable notions about a church member’s duty. For in- 
stance, he tried to convince me it was our duty to give up 
our way of living and devote our time and money to chari- 
ties, reforms and the like. Of course, I refused. Not that 
I don’t believe in giving. I believe in people giving and 
doing what they can without greatly inconveniencing them- 
selves, and I find many who think as I do. Mr. Spruce does 
and that I think is why William won’t go to hear him.” 


62 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


Miss Bellmont did not venture a reply. To tell the truth 
she did not like Mr. Spruce herself, but had made it a life 
rule never to speak ill of a minister of the gospel. 

Breakfast was finished in silence and the two ladies start- 
ed for church. They were a little late — Isabelle enjoyed 
being late to church. She was always richly dressed and 
enjoyed seeing all eyes turn and follow her as she walked 
gracefully down the aisle. 

Miss Bellmont thought being late to church a disgrace 
and settled herself quietly in tb#^ pew and gave her whole 
attention to the sermon. 

Isabelle glanced carelessly over the congregation, mak- 
ing mental comments as she did so. 

“Dear me, I wonder Mrs. Southers does not know it is 
bad form to wear such loud colors to church. There is 
Mrs. Orrison with her last season’s hat on. It must be true 
about Mr. Orrison losing money.” Here she turned her 
attention briefly to the sermon, but hearing nothing out of 
the ordinary, she continued surveying and criticising her 
friends and acquaintances occasionally turning her atten- 
tion to the minister, until the sermon was over, when with 
Miss Bellmont she made her way to the carriage feeling she 
had conferred a great favor upon religion generally. 

“Did you not admire Mr. Spruce’s elegant address?” she 
asked, as soon as they were seated in the carriage. 

“I suppose it was good,” said Miss Bellmont, “but I 
was so vexed at being late; then it has been so long since 
I read Latin or Greek that I did not understand much of it. ’ ’ 

“One must be well educated and intelligent to appreciate 
Mr. Spruce’s sermons,” Isabelle continued, complacently. 
“William now says the most absurd things of him, but I 
assure you he preaches the latest and most popular doc- 
trines. ’ ’ 

The ladies had scarcely put aside their hats when Bell- 
mont entered. 

“Why didn’t you come to church, William. You should 
set your fellow creatures a better example,” said Miss Bell- 
mont, severely. 


63 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


William laughed. 

“You are cross, aunt, but I can afford to be lenient. IVe 
listened to Spruce’s elegant Greek and Latin discourses my- 
self and can heartily sympathize with one so recently afflict- 
ed. But I have been to church.” 

“Where, pray?” asked Isabelle. 

“Oh, to a small but growing church in another part of 
town. It has not been built long and its members do not 
belong to the aristocracy, yet it promises to be a prosperous 
church in many ways. It was not the regular pastor who 
preached today, but a sort of missionary. Paul Rivers I 
believe he is called and quite a rousing sermon he gave us. 
No chance for a nap at all nor could I even divert my mind 
long enough to decide which were the safer investment, 
Texas cattle or gold mines.” 

“Why, what did he preach about so interesting?” asked 
Miss Bellmont, as they sat down to luncheon. 

“Well, being a missionary he naturally preached a mis- 
sionary sermon. He read the story of the judgment: the 
dividing of the goats and sheep, you know, and explained 
the sins of omission in a way I never heard before. He 
said the only person ever spoken of in the Bible as being 
in torment was the rich man who refused to feed Lazarus. 
He said the suffering among the poor the coming winter 
was likely to be great and he hoped the people of our 
country would not be found wanting in generosity. He said 
something else too I never heard from a pulpit before, ’ ’ con- 
tinued William, after a pause. “He said that persons in- 
terested in the poor and who made a business of minister- 
ing to them would do well to look closely to the influences 
and causes that make and keep the people so. He said if a 
shepherd found that wolves were destroying his sheep, he 
did not devote all his time to burying his sheep or dress- 
ing their wounds, but took time for a wolf hunt and de- 
stroyed the wolves, and that Christianity while minister- 
ing to the destitute should also be doing its utmost to de- 
stroy the powers, or change the environments that make 
them so. He then went on to say that the liquor traffic 


64 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

made more paupers and criminals than any other evil or 
combination of evils, and if we really wished to lessen the 
suffering and crime in our country, we should be fighting 
this great evil with all our strength. I’ll tell you he can 
make a fellow feel like a useless piece of driftwood, wab- 
bling around in the way.” 

“And I think he is right,” said Miss Bellmont, warmly. 
“I’ve seen a good deal of poverty myselt the last few 
weeks and I couldn’t name a dozen cases that were not 
caused by drunkenness.” 

“Well, for my part, I don’t see any sense in such talk,” 
said Isabelle. “Now, Mr. Spruce preaches from the Bible 
just as much as that man does, but he leaves out the 
harrowing disagreeable parts and talks about the cheer- 
ful pleasant ones, and I always come away from church 
feeling comfortable^ and like I was doing all that could be 
expected of me.” 

“Exactly.” laughed William. “It’s a wise man that 
knows how to stay on good terms with his bread and but- 
ter and Mr. Spruce is nothing if not wise. He knows pre- 
cisely how to please his congregation and he takes care to 
please it, because if he does not, why there are plenty who 
will. ’ ’ 

“Oh, nonsense; but you always are so absurd,” said 
Isabelle. “I don’t believe in encouraging or upholding 
people in drunkenness or idleness, as you say that man 
does. I believe in folks depending on themselves. There 
always has been a senseless cry against the rich, but I did 
not know the clergy encouraged it. The idea of preaching 
such a sermon as you have described to such people.” 

“My dear, you must have slightly misunderstood my re- 
marks. I did not say he was preaching to the destitute and 
distressed, but about them. I did not see any one who 
looked sick or hungry, neither do I remember seeing any 
one naked or in prison. The congregation, I should judge, 
belongs to what you would call the middle class.” 

“Well, any way, I don’t believe in such sermons. Mr. 
Spruce never preaches them. He doesn’t believe in har- 

65 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


rowing up one’s feelings, especially on Sunday when one 
should rest and he at peace,” replied Isabelle. 

“Then it’s all wrong of course,” said William, dryly. 
“That missionary should be arrested for disturbing the 
peace, and anyway if there is anything in what he said, 
why the indications are that goats are going to be more 
stylish in those days than sheep, so we’ll think no more 
about it.” And William disposed himself comfortably 
on the sofa and took up a book. 

“You see there has always been a class of persons who 
are never satisfied,” said Isabelle, addressing Miss Bell- 
mont, and ignoring William’s speech. “They are always 
hunting up the bad things in the world and agitating some 
reform or other. I don’t see why they can’t let things 
alone. I’m sure there are enough good things in the world, 
if only one cares to look for them.” 

“Why I suppose you believe in spreading the gospel and 
trying to make the world better?” said Miss Bellmont. 

“Certainly! Of course I believe in sending missionaries 
and all that. What I mean, is all this talk about prohibit- 
ing the sale and use of wines and other drinks seems fool- 
ish to me. People don’t have to spend their money for 
it if they don’t want to, and if they do I can’t see that it’s 
anybody’s business but their own.” 

“But God has made it the business of the strong to pro- 
tect the weak. If you will read the eight-second Psalm, 
you will see that God’s people are particularly enjoined to 
do so. Now, you can readily see how the liquor business 
preys upon the poor and ignorant of our own country alone, 
and it seems to me every one interested in the salvation of 
souls can see what a hindrance the whole business is to the 
influence of the gospel.” 

“Oh, well; I can’t say I see it just that way. There 
always has been wine and good men drink it and always 
have. It makes one feel better when one is nervous or has 
the blues. Then it looks so pretty in the glasses on the 
table. I really hope it won’t go out of style.” 

Now, to some of our optimistic friends with model livers, 

66 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


we presume Isabelle’s speech will sound very sweet and 
saintly, and they will praise her greatly for being able to 
see something good in everything. But Miss Bellmont be- 
lieved that whatever good there might be in liquors was 
more than swallowed up in the great evils it c^^used, and 
she had no word of praise for Isabelle’s speech, and she 
had never been accused of being a pessimist, neither had 
she ever had cause to find fault with her liver. She made 
no reply to Isabelle’s last words and presently left the 
room. 


67 


CHAPTER IV. 


The next morning Miss Bellmont went to see Nora, taking 
a small bundle of sewing she had been doing herself for some 
poor children. 

She found the usually light-hearted Nora wearing a dis- 
couraged look and her eyes showed traces of tears. 

“Good morning, Nora, are you ill?” was Miss Bailment’s 
greeting. 

“No ’m, thank you,” said Nora. “I’m only a bit worried. * 
Lonnie hasn’t bin feelin’ well an’ I’m always nervous over 
him,” answered Nora. Then seeing the sewing she con- 
tinued eagerly, “Oh, an’ you’ve brought me work. I’m that 
thankful to you. I don’t like botherin’ Pat for iver>^ little 
want. ’ ’ 

“You don’t look able to sew, Nora,” said Miss Bellmont, 
surveying Nora critically. “You had best let me take it 
back. I can lend you what you need and you can sew when 
you are stronger. ’ ’ 

“Oh, indade, ma’am, I’m perfectly strong,” said Nora 
hastily. “I’m not the great elephant I was when I was at 
Bellmont ’s that time, but I’m stout as I’ve bin for several 
years.” 

Miss Bellmont felt that Nora was hiding something serious 
behind the cheerfulness she had assumed at her entrance, 
but since she did not choose to have her trouble, if she had 
one, known Miss Bellmont did not feel free to force her con- 
fidence, so after promising to bring her more sewing if she 
was able to do it and giving Lonnie some pennies for sweets 
she departed, requesting Nora not to hurry with the sewing* 

The simple truth was Pat had been drinking almost ever 
since the bank failure over a month ago. Nora had borne 
her own disappointment in silence and done all she could to 


68 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


console her husband and stimulate him to fresh efforts, re- 
minding him of the short time it had taken them to save what 
they had lost, and insisting that there was no reason why 
they could not do as well again. 

But sympathy was thrown away on Pat O’Rien after he 
had taken his first drink. His wife’s cheerfulness only 
angered him and he went on drinking harder than ever, 
growing ill and abusive to his family, even refusing Nora 
money when she ventured to ask him for it, which was not 
often, and only after she had wearied her brain trying to 
think of some way to manage without doing so. But Nora 
usually kept up her spirits and looked on the bright side. 
Surely her Pat would not go on this way long. He would 
come to himself and then all would be well again. She re- 
solved to select a time when he was least under the influence 
of liquor and try to persuade him to give it up. She had 
avoided referring to his conduct heretofore, fearing to angei 
him or make him worse but thinking she had tried silence 
long enough decided to try a quiet talk with him about it 
She would be very patient herself and no matter what Pat 
said she would keep her temper and not grow angry with 
him. So she had planned and had selected this very morn- 
ing to have her talk. They were at the breakfast table and 
Pat was in a more reasonable mood than he had been for 
some time. Lonnie, a great, white fat baby of eighteen, 
months, was still sleeping. 

‘‘I’m glad you’ve about quit drinking, Pat,” Nora be- 
gan. “You don’t know how uneasy I was getting about 
you. Some men get so they can’t quit you know and I was 
afraid you might too. Of course it was a bad loss, but it 
only makes it worse for you to drink up what you make 
now, and I do hope you won’t any more. I can be satisfied 
to live here always if you’ll just be my own Pat again. 
’Tain’t ownin’ a nice house that makes a body happy I 
reckon. ’ ’ 

Pat’s face had grown dark as Nora proceeded, but she de- 
termined to at least finish what she had begun to say. 

“I guess if you’d a worked fer that money as I did you 

69 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


wouldn’t feel quite so good over loosin’ it and knowin’ that 
thief of a cashier’s flyin’ around havin’ a good time on it,” 
retorted Pat crossly. 

“I know you worked hard Pat, and it is aggravatin’ to 
know how it went, but after all I’d rather be in our places 
than his. He took so much they’ll be sure to find him, and I 
don’t see how he can enjoy it anyway.” 

“Course not, women never can see nothin’,” growled Pat. 

“But if you’ll only save what you make now Pat it will 
soon amount up again. I think I can get all the sewing I 
can do as long as I am able, but of course when another lit- 
tle one comes I won’t be able to do much for a while. That’s 
why I’m so anxious about you Pat. If you keep on you’ll 
lose your place and then what will become of us all? Be- 
sides, think what the good book says about drunkards not 
going to heaven. Pat, it seems — 

“An’ what does it say about a brawlin’ woman,” inter- 
rupted Pat angrily. “Don’t it say somethin’ about a corner 
of the housetop an’ a crust of bread bein’ better than a 
plenty with a contentious woman?” 

“I believe it does Pat. Be you thinkin’ of tryin’ it? You 
might induce the birds to give you up a corner and I might 
think to toss you a crust occasionally,” retorted Nora, giv- 
ing place to anger in spite of her resolve not to do so. 

“I’ve heard folks say women made their men drunkards 
by quarrelin’ with ’em when they was at home,” observed 
Pat. “But I never believed it till now, and I reckon there is 
lots o ’ men drove to it jist that way. ’ ’ 

“Maybe there is Pat,” said Nora, now thoroughly aroused. 
“But did you ever notice how easy ’tis to drive a gang o’ 
cattle the way they want to go? I’ve heard o’ women too, 
bein’ drove to the grave or insane asylum by drunken, stingy 
men, an’ I’m beginning to know how to feel for them.” 

“ ’Course a woman’ll always have the last word, an’ I’d 
as well go,” and Pat arose from the table and left the 
house. 

Nora was hurt as well as angry, but she was too proud to 
let Pat see it, and had forced back the tears until he was 


70 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


gone, when she sat down by the still sleeping child and let 
them flow. 

“Oh Lonnie, if papa keeps on what will become of ns! 
How will it all end?’^ 

It were well Nora could not see how it would end. 

A wise Father kindly holds a veil before us all, shutting 
out the future with its pains and griefs else we should be 
crushed with anticipation of them before the actual burdens 
were placed upon us. 

Nora was vexed with herself too. She had shown herself 
so weak and hasty when she had meant to be so calm and 
self-possessed. 

Lonnie waked shortly, and she busied herself earing for 
him and flnishing the morning ^s work which was scarcely 
done, when Miss Bellmont came and Nora was more than 
pleased at the prospect of earning the money for her own 
necessities. She could do with such a little. Surely she 
could earn that little. Then she would not be obliged to 
ask Pat for it. She resolved too that hereafter she would 
not remonstrate or complain no matter what came. Pat 
should never have the least cause to say again that she was 
quarrelsome or contentious. She would bear her own bur- 
dens in silence and support herself and her child as long as 
she could. When she could not — well Nora tried to stop 
thinking there. Surely some change would take place. 
Something must happen to arouse Pat from the life he was 
living. 

She finished the sewing Miss Bellmont left and when that 
lady called for it she brought more and told Nora she could 
furnish her with all she could do. 

Before another month passed Pat had lost his position. 
He had been warned several times and his employer would 
not have borne with him so long had he not have been an 
excellent workman. 

This was not unexpected by Nora, though she had tried to 
think he would surely stop before it came to that. Still if 
he had no money to buy liquor with perhaps he would sober 
up and in time get his place back or some other as good. 

71 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


But Nora had not the faintest idea to what depths of deg- 
radation Pat had sunk within the last few weeks nor to 
what base acts his craving for drink could lead him. 

She was greatly surprised then one day when he rudely 
demanded one dollar of her. But she replied composedly : 

“I suppose you want it to help pay the rent Pat, as it’s 
about due. I can spare it this month, but I’m afraid I can’t 
next, ’ ’ and Nora looked questioningly at her husband. 

“Give it here then and don’t stand starin’ like a fool,” 
said Pat, and Nora handed him the money. She had hoped 
he would say what he wanted it for. She could not think 
he would take the money she had earned and spend it for 
drink, but he had done so many things lately she had thought 
him incapable of that she scarcely knew what to expect next. 
One thing, however, she decided upon, and that was if Pat 
did come home drunk that dollar would be the last she would 
ever give him, and Nora’s full red lips straightened into a 
determined line as she reached this conclusion. If Isabelle 
Bellmont could have seen her then she would have said* that 
Nora was in one of her stubborn moods and all arguments 
were useless. 

Pat did come home drunk, or drinking, but in a concilia- 
tory mood; perhaps a little ashamed of his conduct. Just 
enough so to make him crosser with every one with whom 
he came in contact. He wished he had never taken that first 
drink. He wouldn’t have done so, only the boy’s were all 
taking a drink after they heard of the bank failure that 
morning, and to them it had only meant a glass of rum. A 
sort of social cup of consolation, but to him it meant — Ah, 
what had it not meant? But he couldn’t help it now, he 
argued, he supposed he would sober up some time. He al- 
ways had, but in the meantime he must have his rum some 
way, and since Nora was his wife was not her money his 
too ? Any way she must give it to him until he could sober 
up. Then he would make it all back to her and once he got 
free of liquor again he would never taste it as long as he 
lived ; but now he was an abject slave to Strong Drink, in his 
master’s fearful grasp and must do his bidding to the letter. 

72 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“You see, Nora, Twasn’t enough to pay the rent and so 
TwasnT worth while savin’ it,” he said. 

“Didn’t you know it wasn’t enough when you took it 
Pat?” asked Nora. “The rent will be due in a week and I 
haven’t enough to pay it; besides I need all I make so bad.” 

“Yes, there ’tis, always complainin’,” and Pat flung him- 
self from the room, overturning a chair or two in his prog- 
ress and so frightening Lonnie that he ran to Nora scream- 
ing. 

Pat returned, threatening to beat him to death if he did 
not hush at once. Nora soothed the child as best she could, 
making no reply to her husband, though she was pale with 
anger and trembling from head to foot. Mistaking this as 
signs of fear Pat said roughly : 

“You’d jist as well give me the rest o’ that money as 
they ain’t enough to pay the rent. Seems to me the grub ’s 
gettin’ kind o’ thin, an’ I’ll git a supply while I’m out.” 

“No,” said Nora quietly but firmly. “I can’t spare any 
more Pat, and if you want more to eat you’ll have to buy it. 
I ’m doing all I can. ’ ’ 

“Oh, you are,” replied Pat scornfully. “And you can’t 
spare any more money. Well then we’ll see if there ain’t 
somethin’ ye can spare.” And he glanced searchingly 
around the room while Nora’s heart stood still with dread. 
“A feller has ter have suthin’ ter eat an’ drink I reckon. 
Yes, this’ll do,” and he picked up a tiny marble clock from 
the mantle. 

“Oh, Pat, surely you’re not going to sell the clock. Mr. 
Bellmont gave us that for a wedding present.” 

‘ ‘ Give me the money then, ’ ’ said he. 

“No, I can’t,” replied Nora resolutely. 

“Then the clock goes,” and he marched from the house 
with it tucked under his arm. 

Nora felt unusually despondent when he had gone; she 
missed the ticking of the little clock. Lonnie had sobbed 
himself to sleep and the house seemed strangely quiet. Lit- 
tle had she thought on the happy day when the clock came 
into her possession it would leave her thus! She glanced 

73 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


about the room at the different articles of furniture, wonder- 
ing what would go next, for Nora was still resolved not to 
give Pat money. She felt that in doing so she would be re- 
sponsible for his drinking and piece by piece she saw her 
furniture taken from the house and sold, but she said not a 
word until one day a man came saying he had bought her 
sewing machine of Mr. O’Rein. 

Now Nora had bought the machine when they first went 
to housekeeping with her own savings and felt that it, at 
least was hers; besides how could she sew without it? 

“Why, I don’t want to sell my machine,” she said after 
she had recovered somewhat from the shock the news gave 
her. “Mr. O’Rein was mistaken in supposing I did.” 

“Wall, now, I’m sorry ma’am,” replied the man politely. 
“But he told me you was fixin’ to move an’ was soilin’ your 
things cheap an’ that you had a first-class sewin’ machine 
what had only bin in use two years an’ he sold it to me this 
mornin’ fer five dollars.” 

“You paid him for it?” faltered Nora. 

“Yes ma’am,” replied he with a pitying look. “I’m sorry 
’taint all right an’ if you can pay me the money back I 
won’t take the machine.” 

“I can’t do that,” said Nora. “You’ll have to take it.” 

“It’ll make me feel like a thief,” said the man. “An’ if 
I didn ’t have sich a hard time a makin ’ a livin ’ I ’d not tech 
it, but my wife’s needed one so long an’ I’ve never bin able 
to git it. I thought this a good chance. Tell ye what 
though, if you can pay me the five dollars in a month ye 
can have it back.” 

“Well, I’ll see; and I thank you for the kindness any- 
way,” said Nora, though she had little hopes of ever seeing 
her machine again.” 

“Oh. that’s nothin’, I allers like to live an’ let live,” re- 
plied the man as he drove away. 

It was with a weary sigh that Nora resumed her sewing. 
She must at least finish what she had begun and must work 
faster and later at night in order to have it ready by the 
time it was promised. She had never thought the world 

74 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


could look so dark. She was tempted to take Lonnie in her 
arms and slip into the river some night and end it all. 

But no, that would not be the end. There was all eternity 
to come after, though surely it could not be worse than this, 
even for a murderer. 

The temptation, though terrible, passed from her and she 
prepared her child’s supper and dressed him for bed. 

‘*Why not ’oo eat mamma?” lisped Lonnie. 

“Mamma can’t eat, darling,” said Nora who felt that one 
mouthful would choke her. 

“Oo sick?” questioned the child wonderingly. 

“No, mamma isn’t hungry. Mamma’ll eat after a while. 
Come now and mamma will rock and sing. ’ ’ 

Why did she hold him closer than usual and dread to put 
him out of her arms even after he was asleep? 

She tried to think it was because she had thought for a 
moment of ending his innocent life. So she hugged him 
closer and rocked him until she felt forced to put him out 
of her arms to take up her work. 

It was growing late and Pat had not come for his supper 
but Nora was not disappointed at this. He was seldom 
regular at meals, sometimes not coming at all. Nora tried 
to keep her mind on her work and to decide what things 
she could best do without, for since she could not do the 
work by hand, she had meant to do, she must manage with 
fewer of the necessaries of life. But a strange sense of lone- 
liness and desolation crept over her as one by one the lights 
in the adjoining houses went out and the noise in the streets 
subsided. She walked to the window occasionally and peered 
anxiously out into the darkness. Would Pat never come? 
She could never rest until he was at home, though she al- 
ways dreaded his coming. 

She had no way of knowing the exact time but thought 
by the death-like stillness it must be near midnight, and a 
fear amounting almost to terror filled her heart, yet what 
was there to harm her? She had often been alone as late as 
this and felt not the slightest fear. It must be only because 
the rooms looked bare and cheerless since the departure of 


75 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


so many of their furnishings, and reasoning thus Nora again 
sat resolutely down and took up her sewing, singing softly 
an old church song or two to keep up her courage. The 
songs recalled many comforting passages of scripture. 
Promises of God’s watchfulness and His care for those in 
distress. Why had she feared and doubted? Did not God 
know all things ? Could one hair of her head be harmed un- 
less He saw best? Then she slowly repeated the twenty- 
third Psalm, lingering longer over the words : “Tea, though 
I walk through the valley of the shadow of death; I will 
fear no evil, for Thou art with me. ’ ’ 

Nora’s fears left her and she felt unusually happy. 

It is only those who have been forced to drink the cup of 
grief and bitterness to its very dregs that are able in any 
measure to understand the Saviour’s sufferings and to these 
few it is given to live happily amid any and all surroundings: 
and thus being lifted above the petty trials of life, they take 
up the heavier crosses and bear them bravely to the end or 
fall under them as the case may be. 

And so Nora wondered now that she could ever have felt 
the loss of her worldly possessions so keenly. Had she not 
many greater riches left that could not be taken from her? 
A kind Father who knew all her wants and would give her 
what was best while she lived and who, when she died, would 
take her to the heavenly home all ready prepared. If Pat 
continued to drink she had no right to complain. She knew 
his weakness when she married him. True he had promised 
to quit and she knew he had meant to keep his promise. 
Had kept it for a long time, then in an unguarded moment 
had taken the first glass. After that he was no longer his 
own master. He could no more control himself than he 
could control the winds of heaven. It was no longer her 
Pat with whom she lived, but a slave to strong drink who 
must obey the mandates of his master until he either suc- 
ceeded in breaking his chains or was dragged by them to a 
drunkard’s grave. 

No, she would no longer blame Pat. He could not help 
doing as he did and she freely forgave him all the misery he 

76 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


had caused her. Of course she could never love him again. 
That was quite another thing. True love must be founded 
on respect and she could not respect a man who was not his 
own master, sufficiently at least, to control his own appe- 
tites. 

Yet, he had a soul to save, or loose, and it was about this 
that Nora was now most concerned. She would be very 
patient and dutiful, for after all he was her husband. The 
father of her child, or children — for Nora was within three 
months of her second confinement — and to a certain extent 
their interests must be one though love lay a corpse between 
them. 

Scarcely had she reached this conclusion when she heard a 
heavy halting step at the door. She knew it must be Pat 
and tried hard to keep her heart from sinking as she realized 
from his walk that he was drunker than usual. Hastily open- 
ing the door she stepped out to assist him into the room 
should it prove needful. But Pat pushed her rudely aside, 
saying with an oath : 

“Think I can’t get in? Well I can.” And though his 
gait was very unsteady he walked into the room. 

“Now sit here and I’ll re-heat the coffee,” said Nora, 
placing him a chair. 

“I hain’t come fer coffee,” growled Pat, placing his hand 
on the chair to steady himself. “And I hain’t time to set; 
I’ve come fer that money an’ I’m goin’ to have it too; so 
you’d jist as well hand it over an’ save trouble.” 

“I can’t give you the money, Pat,” replied Nora steadily. 
“I need every cent I can make now, besides I can’t bear to 
have my money go for liquor when it hurts you so. ’ ’ 

Pat glared widly at her a moment as though scarcely com- 
prehending her words. He understood enough, however, to 
realize that she had refused him the money, and he poured 
out such a volley of oaths and curses as Nora had never 
heard before, ending with : 

“ So ye won ’t, won ’t ye ? Well, we ’ll see, ’ ’ and Pat picked 
up the chair he had been leaning upon and took a step to- 

77 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


ward his wife. “Now hand it over or you’ll never have a 
chance to refuse me agin’.” 

Nora turned a shade paler but still remained firm. She 
had no idea Pat would really harm her. He only meant to 
frighten her into giving him the money. Of course he would 
not carry out his threat. Pat was incapable of such an act. 
Nora did not realize as well as she had thought, that this 
was no longer Pat with whom she had to deal, but a raging 
demon no more responsible for his actions than the veriest 
madman. 

“No, Pat, I can’t give you the money now. Put down the 
stool and let me fix your supper. We’ll see about the money 
tomorrow. ’ ’ 

Before she had quite finished speaking, Pat rushed to- 
ward her with the stool and with one blow struck her to 
the floor. 

“Oh, Pat, don’t strike me again and I’ll give you the 
money,” begged Nora, who was still conscious. Her face 
was bleeding from a slight wound, but the main force of the 
blow had fallen on her shoulder. 

But Pat heeded not the pitiful request. The sight of his 
wife ’s blood seemed to affect him as a wild beast and he dealt 
blow on blow even after life must have been extinct. 

His child was awakened by the noise and was calling for 
his mother but Pat heard him not. He had eyes and thoughts 
for nothing but the bruised and bleeding form on the floor 
and stood like a statue, gazing upon it as though unable to 
move or turn his eyes. 

Slowly his reason was returning. Why was Nora lying 
there like that and why. Oh why, was he standing over her 
with that heavy stool? He dropped it with a shudder as he 
saw blood and a portion of Nora’s fair hair clinging to it. 

A loud knock at the door failed to attract his attention 
and a second had no better success so the door was pushed 
open and a neighbor walked into the room followed by two 
policemen. 

It was useless to ask questions. Pat’s position over the 
dead body and the stool lying at his feet was strong evi- 

78 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVEKY. 


dence. Then the neighbor had heard the loud words and 
the blows and there was no one to give them but Pat. 

“I didn’t think it ’d be this bad though, or I wouldn’t 
’ave waited to call you,” he said to the policemen. “He’s 
been racketin’ around a long time, an’ I thought if he was 
took up once mebbe he’d behave hisself. I never thought 
he’d hurt Nory.” 

Requesting the neighbor to guard one door one police- 
man stepped to the other while the second approached Pat 
revolver in hand. 

But in this case all such precautions were unnecessary for 
Pat made not the slightest resistance and only stared stupidly 
at the officer as he deftly slipped the handcuffs on him and 
said : 

“Now, my man, you must come with me.” 

“What’ll you do with the child?” asked the other officer, 
for Lonnie was still crying and calling his mamma. 

“We’ll take him a day or two,” said the man. “I’ll go 
and tell my wife and call in a neighbor or two. It’s dread- 
ful, an’ Pat thought the world o’ Nory till he took to 
drinkin ’. ’ ’ 

The officers waited until he returned and then departed 
with their prisoner. 

Persons in the immediate vicinity of the crime were great- 
ly horrified. 

Pat O’Rien ought to be lynched. 

Ordinary hanging was too good for such a brute. 

And the man who had sold Pat the liquor when he heard 
of the crime took his cigar from between his teeth and coolly 
remarked : 

“Well, it’s bad. That Pat O’Rien hadn’t a bit o’ sense 
when he was drinkin’. I’ve had trouble with him more than 
once, but he was a good customer. Owed me three dollars 
though I don’t reckon I’ll ever get. He’d gone home that 
night after it ’cause I wouldn’t let him have anything else 
till he paid up. Reckon he’ll hang,” and the cigar was re- 
sumed as unconcernedly as though he had been in no way 
responsible for the crime. 


79 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


But is he not responsible ? If you, my friend, should pro- 
vide some one the means to destroy himself or his neighbor, 
would you not be responsible for the crime ? And if so, then 
when this liquor dealer sold Pat that which he knew made 
him quarrelsome and dangerous, was he not responsible for 
his crime? 

And where, indeed, does this chain of awful responsibility 
end? Does it not even reach to the makers and executoi^ 
of our laws? And vrhile saloon-keepers today are sending 
from their doors many criminals, to prey upon the innocent 
and unsuspecting, and starting many more of their fellow 
mortals on the road to eternal doom, are they not laying 
their coats at the feet of a Christian nation while they carry 
on their hideous work? 

Oh! but these low saloon-keepers. 

They are not considered anybody. 

They are not recognized in social and church circles at 
all. 

Are they not ? • But what of the brewer and wholesaler ; 
are they debarred from the church and ostracized socially? 
Certainly not. Yet were it not for them the “low” saloon- 
keeper or retailer would be an impossibility. 

Pat himself remembered nothing of the crime, though he 
did not doubt having committed it. He remembered start- 
ing for the money and Nora’s refusing to give it to him. 
Then all was a blank until he began gradually to come to 
himself beside her dead body. When told why he was ar- 
rested he seemed stunned and refused to talk to anyone and 
when his mind became entirely clear he was almost crazed 
with grief, and remorse, pacing his cell when alone, moan- 
ing and begging Nora to forgive him. 

“Did I kill you Nora, as they say? Do you know how 
sorry I am? I’ll never see you any more, Nora, and I de- 
serve it all for I didn’t treat you right. I remember that, 
but 0, I can’t believe I killed you. It’s too awful. And 
poor Lonnie, what will become of him? No, I don’t want 
to see him. He looks like Nora.” 

But to all visitors Pat remained fallen and silent, refusing 

80 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


to answer questions or to speak of his crime in any way — 
and in due time he was tried, found guilty, and executed. 
Then in a few days the whole affair was forgotten. 

Busy humanity has no time to look beneath the surface 
and discover the causes of crime and remove them, but con- 
tents itself with punishing the criminals as they come to 
light. 

But many murders and other crimes are committed that 
are not caused by drunkenness. 

Granted. It is because there is more than enough crime 
and poverty in the world without that caused by the liquor 
traffic, that we would abolish it. It should he the desire 
of every true citizen to lessen crime as much as possible 
and how better can this be begun than by striking a busi- 
ness that makes so many criminals? 

Miss Bellmont saw Nora buried decently and sent Lonnie 
to a sister of his mother in the East and then went about 
her work more grim and silent than ever. 

“Well, it’s nothing more than I expected,” said Isabelle 
when the manner of poor Nora’s death was told her by 
William. “I told you what was the matter when you said 
Nora wanted work and you see now I was right.” 

“Which seems to afford you much satisfaction,” William 
had replied dryly, though he was surprised at his wife’s 
want of feeling. He knew she had loved Nora the four years 
she had been her maid. Then why this seeming indifference 
at her terrible death? 

William was beginning to have a suspicion — a dark and 
terrible suspicion. One that he flung from him with all his 
strength when ever it arose. And Miss Bellmont was fre- 
quently surprised by his changing moods. Now he would 
sit by the hour lost in gloomy thought, seemingly oblivious 
to his surroundings, then he would be gay and sarcastic by 
turns until the good woman was almost at her wits’ end 
trying to analyze and understand him. 


81 


CHAPTER V. 


The next week after the fair there was a political meet- 
ing at Rosedale. The speaker was a prominent factor in his 
party’s affairs, and had frequently held important offices. 
The people of Rosedale felt quite elated at having secured 
an hour or two of his valuable time. To be sure the op- 
posing party’s leaders had told some very unsavory tales 
about him, but tales told about an active politician in the 
heat of a campaign are to be taken like gossip at an after- 
noon tea, with considerable salt. So the people understand 
and prepare to listen to him with as unprejudiced minds as 
it is possible for ordinary mortals to have during a free 
American political campaign. 

The speaking was to be in the shade of two or three large 
trees near the center of the town, where there was at that 
time several vacant lots, and the crowd began to assemble 
as early as 2 o’clock, although the speaking was not to 
begin until 3. The place selected for the meeting was only a 
short distance from Mr. Bunn’s saloon, and that gentleman 
was greatly rejoiced to know he had this advantage over 
his competitor. It would give him some chance to get even 
with him for making so much fair week. 

Finally, after the delays always to be expected on such oc- 
casions, the speaker mounted the stand and began his ad- 
dress, waxing warm and loud as he proceeded. 

A few boys and young men collected on the outer edge 
of the crowd, who had been patronizing Mr. Bunn, with a 
view no doubt to stimulating their patriotism and enabling 
them to more fully understand the speaker. And evidently 
it had done so, as they were doing most of the cheering, 
growing louder and more noisy, greatly annoying the per- 
sons standing near them. 


82 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 

One young man in particular, seemed resolved to show his 
patriotism, for his shouts and hurrahs could be heard above 
all the others. 

“I say, Tom, donT you reckon we could kind o’ quiet 
those boys a little, or get ’em away?” It was John Reyn- 
olds who spoke. 

“Oh, we might,” replied Tom, carelessly, “but I don’t 
see as we’ve got any call to trouble ourselves. That chap 
furnished the stuff them boys has been a drinkin’ an’ he can 
enjoy their pranks fer all me.” 

“But the people can’t hear,” persisted John. 

“They ain’t a missin’ much,” was the cool reply. 

John glanced at Tom, sharply. He had had cause to won- 
der at his actions and words many times lately. Of course, 
he expected him to be changed, for Tom had carried out 
his intention of becoming a Christian and was now a member 
of the little church at Rosedale, but this, in John’s estima- 
tion, did not account for his strange behavior. 

“Tom, what’s the matter with you, any way? You used 
to take a lot of interest in the campaigns and enjoy 'em, 
but I’ve noticed this year you don’t seem to care a cent 
which way the thing goes.” 

“Well, John, I’m beginnin’ to see that my party, or the 
men runnin’ it, can sin a little, as well as the next one. 
Think of a man as high up as that one is goin’ into a saloon 
and leavin’ money to treat with, or buy votes with. If it 
takes whisky, give ’em whisky; if they want money, give 
’em money. Seems to me a purty rotten way o’ runnin’ the 
government. ’ ’ 

“But most public men do so, more or less. You know 
I don’t believe in it, and that’s why I wouldn’t run for 
constable last spring. I knew I’d have to treat some o’ the 
boys if I was elected. No, I don’t go in for politics myself 
much, but that’s what it takes to get some men’s votes, and 
if our party don’t get them the other one will.” 

“So, if the other party uses underhand ways to get votes 
our party must too, and the one that can buy the most votes 


83 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


beats. Well, I’m gettin’ to think that’s about the size of 
it,” said Tom. 

Here the loud-talking young man left the crowd and 
crossed the street to Mr. Bunn’s saloon; the other boys grew 
quieter, and John began to think the disturbance was over. 
Presently, however, a loud commotion was heard in the di- 
rection of Mr. Bunn’s. 

‘‘Somebody’s got too much o’ the speaker’s treat I reck- 
on,” observed Tom Long. “I’m goin’ over to see who ’tis. 
That little pen runs down past Jack’s restaurant and the 
trouble’s in the pen.” 

The pen referred to was simply a narrow alley, fenced 
closely with high boards. It had been constructed by Mr. 
Bunn to accommodate that portion of his customers who 
disliked being seen entering or leaving a saloon, and by 
the aid of this alley these over-sensitive gentlemen might 
walk boldly in at the front door of Jack’s restaurant, out 
at the back, and into Mr. Bunn’s without anyone being the 
wiser, except Jack himself, and it w^as in this alley, as Tom 
Long said, that the disturbance seemed to be. 

Tom sauntered across the street as he spoke, and entered 
Jack’s restaurant. He found Jack standing at the back door 
looking out. Tom looked over his shoulder and saw the 
young man who had just left the crowd lying on the ground, 
his face covered with blood. 

“What’s the row about. Jack?” asked Tom. 

“Don’t know,” was the reply. “I was busy in the front 
room when I heard some tall cussin’ over at Bunn’s, but 
didn’t think nothin’ of it till I heard the back door open 
an’ Stubbs a swearin’ at somebody, and got back here in 
time to see Stubbs chuck him out an’ slam the door. He 
ain’t hurt much; Stubbs only used knuckles. He’s bled 
some but ’ll be all right directly — I’m goin’ to lock this door 
’cause everybody’ll be crowdin’ in here in a minute.” 
And Jack locked the door and pocketed the key. 

“Where’s Bunn?” asked Tom. 

“Over to the speakin’. Yonder he comes now. My! 
Won’t he be disgraced though?” And Jack gave a chuckle 

84 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


of delight as he pictured Mr. Bunn’s chagrin, for that gen- 
tleman had always prided himself on running his busi- 
ness without such disturbances. 

“He can’t expect nothin’ else. I never knowed any 
body to keep saloon long without havin’ trouble. It’s 
the business that’s wrong an’ the man can’t help it.” 

“But you couldn’t think o’ makin’ Bunn see it that 
way. He says the business is all right if it’s run right.” 

Mr. Bunn hurried into his saloon and made a few hasty 
inquiries then opened the back door and looked at the 
boy who was trying to get up, after which he came into 
Jack’s room, where quite a crowd had gathered. 

“You see, gentlemen,” he explained, “it was all his 
own fault. Stubbs had to do it. He’d had his share, but 
when Mr. Stubbs told him he got mad and raised a racket 
an’ Stubbs jist put him out in the pen to sober up. He 
ain’t hurt much and is cornin’ ’round, an’ will likely have 
better manners. I hate to have such musses ’round my 
place o’ business an’ don’t often.” 

“No! An’ when you do it’s always the fault o’ some 
brutish cuss or other that’s always scrapin’ anyhow. Stubbs, 
now, wouldn’t hurt a flea only in self defence. I can 
swear to that an’ show a mark to prove it,” observed Jack, 
dryly. 

“Well, Jack, Stubbs was drinkin’ that mornin’ you was 
in an’ I don’t think you ought to lay it up agin him,” 
said Mr. Bunn. 

“I won’t,” said Jack. “And if sometime when I’m 
drinkin’ I take a notion to get even you mustn’t lay it 
up agin me.” 

Tom rejoined John at the speaking and scarcely had he 
done so when the drunken young man emerged from Bunn’s, 
and led by a friend made his way toward the crowd. He 
was coatless and hatless and the blood had only been partly 
washed from his face and was plentifully sprinkled over 
his light shirt; a red handkerchief covered one eye: but 
not in the least daunted by his personal appearance the 
young man pushed himself nearer the speaker despite his 

85 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


friend’s efforts to restrain Mm. Through it all he had not 
forgotten his patriotism and kept hurrahing for his fa- 
vorite candidate. 

“You’re right, pard. You’re right,” he sang out, as the 
speaker made a lucky hit, and the crowd cheered. 

But the speaker remained as undisturbed as though 
drunken men with blood bespattered faces and clothes 
were a part of the program. He seems alarmed least some- 
thing has happened or is going to happen to the currency 
of the country and is very anxious to impress upon his 
hearers the importance of having good money. Why is 
he not also anxious to have good men? But no: just any 
kind of men will do. The more ignorant and vicious the 
easier bought or influenced. Brink them in from every 
land: criminals, paupers and anarchists; fill them full of 
somebody’s best old rye and trot them off to the polls. 
Then when anything goes wrong we lay the blame on the 
money, the other party or anything else, but the kind of 
men; but “The man’s the goud for a’ that.” 

After the speaking John and Tom walked toward home 
together, the latter being unusually silent. 

“Well, we had a good speaking,” observed John, pres- 
ently. “If them boys hadn’t a’ cut up so. It looked bad 
in ’em.” 

“It looked a good deal worse fer that feller to furnish 
’em the stuff that made ’em cut up,” replied Tom, shortly. 

“Tom, I’m thinkin’ you’re a right smart of a crank 
lately,” said John, impatiently. 

“Well, think away then; but you know tain’t right as 
well as I do, unless you’re so wrapped up in your party 
you can’t see nothin’ an’ I always gave you credit for 
more sense than that,” replied Tom. 

“My party, Tom? ’Twas always our party before.” 

“Well, I reckon ’tis yet, only I can see a little an’ it seems 
you can’t,” replied Tom. “I say tain’t right for a candidate 
to do as that one did today, an’ I don’t care whose party he 
belongs to. The whole bloomin’ business is a piece o’ dirt, 

86 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


an’ I can’t see how any self -respectin’ person can patronize 
it or hold up for it.” 

“I don’t patronize it. I know it’s a bad business an’ I 
don’t hold up for it, but there ain’t no way o’ stoppin’ it 
as I can see, except to teach the boys to let it alone.” 

“An’ a fine chance you stand ’o teachin’ ’em better 
when a man like that speaker drinks it hisself an’ furnishes 
it fer them! They think he’s great guns. School was let 
out so the children could all hear him. Seems to me, John, 
that’s a kind of a ’round about way of goin’ at it, an’ 
while you’re tryin’ to teach a few boys — maybe really do 
teach a few — not to be caught in any of the traps set for 
’em, there’s any amount of ’em walkin’ right into danger 
with their eyes shut.” 

“Well, I don’t see any way to stop it,” replied John. 
“The saloons are here it seems; a legal institution and if 
boys can’t be taught to stay away from ’em, I don’t see 
how they’re to be saved from ’em.” 

“Now, look here, John: look at this thing from the boy’s 
point o’ view. He sees these places all over the country: 
one or two in most every little town and in cities accordin’, 
and he sees men, he’s been taught to look up to, patron- 
izin’ ’em. What is he to think? Specially if he’s never 
been taught the dangers o’ the places? or that it’s wrong 
to patronize ’em? an’ if he has he’s likely to get so mud- 
dled tryin’ to straighten it all out an’ make his bringin’ 
up fit in with facts that he won’t know what to think, and 
is apt to conclude that if this or that man drinks it must 
be all right after all. Then, when you look at it from the 
liquor dealer’s point of view and understand that he’s in 
business to make money, and is goin’ to do all he can to 
build up his trade, you can begin to see the boys’ danger. 
I’ve knowed ’em to be enticed into saloons an’ treated and 
made much of till they had such a taste fer liquor they 
couldn’t let it alone. That’s only one of their ways to 
build up trade: make the boys slaves to it while they’re 
boys and they can generally depend on gettin’ about all 
they make when they get to be men.” 

87 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“But I can’t believe all the liquor dealers set down an’ 
deliberately plan to ruin boys and men like that,” said 
John. 

“Maybe they don’t set down and plan it al] out, but 
they’d just as well. The results are the same. An’ I’ve 
knowed men mean enough to do just that. A saloon 
keeper, I take it, ain’t troubled with much of a conscience 
to start on, nor no very great crop o’ morals, and I never 
knowed one to stay in the business a year without goin’ 
down hill morally. So you can see how easy ’tis for them 
to get so far along they don’t care what they do so they 
don’t get caught. The business is as bad morally for the 
liquor dealers as for his customers. While he’s runnin’ 
and degradin’ others he’s doin’ the same for himself.” 

“Yes, it’s bad take it all around: for you never know 
who’s going to begin drinkin’ next, and there ought to be 
some way to stop it, but it seems nobody can find the 
way. ’ ’ 

“Seems to me we found a way to stop ’em catchin’ and 
makin’ nigger slaves,” said Tom. 

“That was different,” persisted John. “Every person 
that drinks don’t become a slave to it. Besides think o’ 
the people that makes a livin’ out o’ the business, to say 
nothin’ o’ what’s paid to the government by it. I tell you 
it’s foolish to think o’ tryin’ to stop sich a powerful busi- 
ness.” 

“And I tell you it’s cowardly to let it alone,” retorted 
Tom, angrily. “And I’m ashamed of you, John Reynolds. 
I never thought to hear such words from your lips. What 
if some people does make money out o’ the liquor trade; 
ain’t lots o’ others ruined and sent to the devil by it? 
Didn’t the South make money out o’ nigger slaves? But 
they had to give ’em up just the same. And the govern- 
ment — well now I never thought o’ that before,” he con- 
tinued, more slowly. 

“Yes, there, now! What a bloomin’ mess we made of it 
when we stopped the slave trade. If we’d only ’ave had the 
interests of the government at heart now, instead o’ the in- 


88 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


terest of a few ignorant niggers an’ instead o’ stoppin’ the 
whole thing as we did, just ’a’ said to the catchers an’ 
traders: ‘Here, this thing don’t look just right to us, an’ if 
you fellers keep it up you’ve got to pay the government so 
much for the privilege. What a golden stream might ’ave 
been flowin ’ into the treasury yet from the slave trade ! ’ ’ 

“But the liquor trade can’t be stopped like the slave trade 
was,” replied John. “An’ all we can do is to kind o’ regu- 
late it an’ keep it from gettin’ worse and pray for the Lord 
to show the liquor dealers the error o ’ their ways. ’ ’ 

“Pray for ’em! Well, of course, we ought to pray for 
’em, but I reckon if we’d ’a’ done nothin’ but stand an’ 
pray for the slave catchers we’d ’a’ been a prayin’ yet an’ 
they’d a’ been goin’ on with the business. An’ you’re goin’ 
to regulate the liquor trade, too. Well, go ahead. Mean- 
while I’ll regulate the next earthquake or cyclone that 
comes along. An’ you’re goin’ to keep it from getting worse. 
It’s ruinin’ men now, soul an’ body, an’ causin’ enough mis- 
ery to sink the whole country — say, John, how much worse 
could it get?” 

“Well, what are you goin’ to do about it? It’s the silliest 
thing ever I heard, this claimin’ a law or two could stop 
the whole thing. We’ve got more liquor laws now than we 
can enforce.” 

“Soothin’ syrup, every bloomin’ one of ’em. Made to kind 
o’ pacify an’ sooth people into thinkin’ they’re gettin’ rid 
o’ the liquor business whereas it’s only bein’ consolidated 
same as other trades. No, sir, if we want to kill the liquor 
trade we’ve got to wake up an’ quit takin’ soothin’ syrup. 
And I’m not claimin’ a few laws ’ll stop it, either. All the 
laws from the commandments down ain’t stopped mur- 
derin’, lyin’ an’ stealin’. Think we ought n’t to have the 
laws? Well, that’s all we can do with the liquor trade; 
make it a crime legally; it’s already one morally, and then 
punish the criminals. 

Tom had reached his store by this time and John walked 
on without replying, a dissatisfied pucker on his usually 
placid brow. 


89 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Don’t see what’s cornin’ over Tom,” he mused. “I al- 
ways thought religion ’d hit him hard, but I never thought 
’twould make a plum fanatic of him. Of course, ’tis a 
bad business, but we don’t have as much drinkin’ as we 
used to, and I don’t see how two saloons can make much 
here.” 

Here John reached his shop and lost his troubled thoughts 
in work. 


90 


CHAPTER VI. 


Though Mr. Bunn had most of the trade the day of 
the speaking it did not follow that he had made the most 
money, and if honest John Reynolds could have known all 
that took place at McGregor’s that day he would have 
known how one saloon keeper at least made money. 

Among McGregor’s many other natural graces and ac- 
quirements was that of stinginess, as has been before hinted. 
He had persuaded his clerk. Smith, by name, that he 
could afford to work for him for almost nothing because 
he would be learning the trade. And to tell the truth 
Smith could not have chosen a better teacher of the trade 
than was McGregor. If he had any heart at all it had be- 
come so hardened that nothing affected it. He could take 
the last cent a customer had if he knew his children were 
starving and laugh at or curse the child that came for 
him. 

If one came that was such an habitual drinker that one 
or two glasses did not make him drunk and for any rea- 
son McGregor wanted him drunk he kept a preparation he 
dropped in his liquor before passing it to him, and his 
customer would afterward wonder what was the matter 
with him, and, if on examination, he found his pocket- 
book considerably lighter than he had supposed it to be, 
his wonder was increased unless indeed it happened to 
be one who had been there before: then he would under- 
stand. 

Occasionally one would hear tales of men being drugged 
and robbed at McGregor’s, but most persons supposed this 
only a drunkard ’s ' excuse or way of accounting for the 
money he had doubtless drank up or gambled away; and, 
anyway, if they are believed they elicit no sympathy for the 
person. They should stay away from such places you know. 

91 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


It was late on the afternoon of the speaking that Carl 
Newman went to McGregor’s accompanied by a friend. 
Said friend being a gold miner who had recently struck it 
rich and had come to town to enjoy himself and blow in 
a portion of his newly acquired wealth. Coming across 
Carl on the street he had invited him to go to McGregor’s 
for a friendly game of cards. Carl went: he was always 
ready to play whether a friendly game or otherwise. 

“Here, old boy, give us something tip-top. Come on, 
Carl, we can play better for having something to drink,” 
said the miner, whose name was Jones. “What’ll it be 
since you’ve quit the stronger stuff? Soda, sweet cider er 
what ? ’ ’ 

“We’ve got some good beer here that won’t hurt no- 
body,” said Smith. 

“Well, I’ll risk the beer, I guess,” said Carl Newman, and 
after drinking to each other’s luck, both men seated them- 
selves at the table where Smith had placed the cards. 

After several games had been played with varied suc- 
cess Jones brought his fist down on the table with an 
oath, adding: 

“I say, Newman, it ain’t no fun playin’ this way; let’s just 
bet enough to make it interestin’, say a ten or so.” 

“All right,” was the reply, and both players passed a 
bill to Smith. 

Now, Jones, like many persons who have just come into 
the possession of riches, rather enjoyed making a display 
of them, and when he opened his pocket-book to take out 
the bill he spread it out upon the table, thereby disclosing 
to view numerous bills and pieces of gold : enough to arouse 
McGregor’s avarice, and he straightway set his active brain 
to work devising a plan whereby he hoped to secure the 
fatted purse himself. 

A hasty whispered conversation took place behind the 
bar and a plan of action decided upon. 

‘ ‘ There, that ’ll work, I think. Get him to play with you ; 
let him beat you and then propose the treat; I’ll ’tend to 
the rest. I’ll put Newman’s beer part pure whisky, too; 


92 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


then we’ll see if he don’t drink again, ha, ha.” And Mc- 
Gregor gave a satisfied chuckle as he contemplated his hid- 
eous work. 

“Who’s heatin’?” asked Smith, coming up to table. 

“You can give the money to Carl,” said Jones. 

“It’s no use you playin’ with Carl,” said Smith. “I’ve 
never seen him beat yet when he was tryin’. I believe 
you an’ me’d be about even now, an’ when you git tired 
losin’ money with Carl, I’ll play you a few.” 

“All right, but I’ll risk another with Carl. I’m gen- 
erally purty lucky.” 

But Carl won that game and two others before Jones 
gave it up, and Smith took Carl’s place at the table. It 
was growing dark and the lamps were lighted before Smith 
and Jones began to play. 

“Bring us a drink of somethin’. Mack,” said Smith. 
“As Mr. Jones says, I think we can play better if we start 
in with a drink.” 

“Well, here you are then,” said McGregor, placing two 
glasses on the table, one at Smith’s right hand and one at 
Jones’; then turning to Carl he said: 

“We won’t be left out, Mr. Newman. We’ll have a sup 
or two ourselves if we ain’t playin’. Here’s your beer an’ 
it’s Smith’s treat if he beats, and Jones’ if he don’t. 
Here ’s to their luck. ’ ’ And McGregor drank his own liquor 
with a gulp. 

Carl hesitated a moment. Ought he to r7sk even a second 
glass of beer? Reason answered no, but why not? There 
isn’t much alcohol in beer. Where’s any danger in a glass 
or two of beer? And he took the glass from the table and 
drank it off. 

Smith and Jones played several games and Jones won 
all but one. Jones began to rub his eyes and look sleep}^ 
during the last game, and when it was finished declared 
he would play no more and arose to go. But his legs re- 
fused to support him and he caught at the table for sup- 
port. 


93 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Look out, Mr. Jones, said Smith, coming to his as- 
sistance. “That whisky was likely a little strong.” 

“I ainT drunk; I know I ain’t,” declared Jones. “It 
takes more ’n two glass o’ anything to make me drunk. 
I don’t see what ails me.” 

“Mebbe you’re a mite sick or tired, anyway you’d bet- 
ter lay down here on Smith’s bed and rest a little,” said 
McGregor. 

Jones decided to do so since he could neither walk nor 
stand, and was already too much under the influence of the 
drug to think clearly. Needless to add he was soon entirely 
unconscious. 

In the meantime Mr. Newman felt a strong desire for 
drink creeping over him. He turned once to leave, then 
thinking it would look cowardly to thus desert his friend 
he still lingered. 

“What the deuce ails him, Mack?” he inquired, going 
to the bed where Jones lay. “I’ve seen him drink more’n 
that myself without gettin’ drunk.” 

“How do I know what ails him?” replied McGregor, 
gruffly. “I wish you’d a’ got him out o’ here someway. 
He’s likely piled up here now for the night.” This was 
added with a view to throwing off Carl’s suspicions if he 
had any, but he had none and was at a loss how to account 
for Jones’ condition. 

“Well, Mack, put me up a bottle o’ something and I’ll 
be goin’. I’ll look in after while an’ see how he’s gettin’ 
on,” said Carl. 

“Beer?” inquired McGregor. 

“No. I’ll take whisky. Reckon tain’t worth while me 
tryin’ to quit it. I’ve gone too far an’ I’ll just eat, drink 
an’ be merry while I do live, whatever comes after.” And 
Carl tried to smile though he felt a sickening fear and 
dread of what might be the result of this night’s weak- 
ness. As before stated Carl had had several attacks of 
delirium-tremens ; the last two or three being so acute that 
the physician had warned him that the next one would 
likely end his life. 


94 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


And Carl thought he had been very careful. He had re- 
fused all alcoholic drinks for several weeks until tonight, 
when he thought he might take a glass of beer without 
endangering himself and probably might have done so had 
not this agent of Satan, being prompted by his master, 
who doubtless feared that one of his many slaves was about 
to escape, spread the net that was forever to hold its vic- 
tim in its fearful toils. 

But Carl Newman should not have gone into temptation. 
He should have heeded the warning and avoided dangerous 
companions and places of amusements. 

To be sure he should, but again we would remind the 
reader that it is not intention to picture humanity as it 
should be, but as it is when tempted and tried by our 
pernicious liquor traffic. 

Mr. Jones did not wake until next morning: he sat up 
rubbing his eyes and trying to think what had befallen 
him. 

‘Hello, pard, how do you feel?” inquired McGregor. 

“Not very good. Was I here all night? Was I drunk?” 
asked Jones. 

“Guess you was a little. Anyway you couldn’t walk, so 
we just piled you up. Want another drink?” 

“No! Least ways not till I’ve had some breakfast.” 
And Jones started in quest of his breakfast and seeing the 
sign over Jack Winter’s restaurant he went there. 

“Morning stranger,” said Jack, cheerily. “Anything?” 

“Yes, I want some breakfast,” was the not very definite 
reply. 

“Ham, eggs, oysters or what?” 

“Some fried oysters an’ eggs an’ coffee’ll do, I reckon.” 

“All right. You can go in the back room there an’ 
slick up a little while I’m fixin’ ’em if you’re a mind. I 
won’t be long.” 

Jones proceeded to slick up, which in this instance meant 
only a face bath and hair brush. 

Not until he had eaten his breakfast did Jones bethink 


95 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVEEY. 


him of his pocket-book. Then when he took it from his 
pocket to pay Jack it was empty. 

“I’ve been robbed! I know I have! It couldn’t a’ fell 
out, I know it couldn’t!” exclaimed Jones, examining ev- 
ery crevice of his purse in vain. “Every cent gone.” 

“Where did you spend the night, stranger?” asked Jack, 
rather inclined to look on Jones’ proceedings as a ruse to 
get his breakfast free. 

“Over at Mack’s.” And he gave Jack a history of the 
events of the preceding evening as far as he knew, then 
closing with: 

“You see I must ’ave been robbed by some loafer while 
I was asleep. I’ll go back an’ tell Mack about it and may- 
be he can give me some idee who ’twas.” And he crossed 
the street and hurried to McGregor’s saloon. 

Jack looked after him with a curious smile on his face. 

“Yes, stranger, I’ve no kind o’ doubt but Mack could 
give you a purty good idee who took yer money, but you’d 
jist as well look for it at the end o’ the rainbow for all 
the good it’ll do you. People don’t as a rule find things 
they lose at Mack’s. By gum! I’ll have some fun out o’ 
this,” he concluded, smiling broadly. 

Jones returned presently saying rather dejectedly: 

“They don’t know nothin’ about it. There was a big 
crowd in last night an’ ’course they couldn’t watch every- 
body. Funny what made me sleep so deuced sound. There 
was over five hundred dollars in that pocket-book.” 

Jack gave a long whistle and then with that peculiar 
smile still on his face, said : 

“I’ve heard tell o’ men sleepin’ sound at Mack’s be- 
fore. Must have uncommon good beds.” 

Jones looked thoughtful a moment as though trying to 
decide what Jack meant, then shaking his head as though 
to give it up, said: 

“Newman, too, now, is in there this mornin’ drinkin’ fit 
to kill, an ’ yesterday he told me he had to quit ; he did take 
a glass or two o’ beer though, an’ I reckon that started 
him.” 


96 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Was Newman in there all the time you were till you 
went to sleep?” asked Jack. 

“Yes. Went in to play as I told you and was just 
cornin’ out when my legs begun to wabble so I couldn’t 
stand on ’em.” 

“And Newman didn’t drink nothin’ but a couple o’ 
beers?” 

“Not while I was awake. Course now a man’s apt to 
say he’s quit an’ then go at it agin, but Carl’s got to where 
he’s got to stop purty soon or pass in his checks. But I 
reckon he’s concluded to risk it another whirl.” 

Again that strange knowing smile flitted across Jack’s 
face, but he said nothing and Jones took his leave, after 
olfering Jack his watch as security for his debt. 

“Oh, go ’long. I don’t keep a pawnbroker’s shop. You 
can pay me some time,” replied Jack. 

Several customers came and went after Jones took his 
leave and it was not until nearly ten o’clock that Jack 
found himself free to have his anticipated fun. Then 
dropping a revolver in his pocket he proceeded to Mc- 
Gregor’s and walking up to the bar said: 

“A glass o’ beer Mack please, and don’t bother to put 
it half whisky. I take my beer an’ whisky separate and 
can’t understand Newman’s taste.” 

McGregor glanced at him suspiciously and knew at once 
by that cool quizzical look that Jack either knew or guessed 
more about his business methods than he cared to have 
him know, but he replied shortly: 

“I don’t know nothin’ ’bout Newman’s tastes only they 
seem to be for whisky today; he’s jist gone; drunker ’n 
hell.” 

“Don’t know nothin’ ’bout his tastes? Well, that is 
good. How’d ye know then that he liked his beer an’ whisky 
mixed? An’ say. Mack, how did you come to he so gen- 
erous? Whisky costs more’n beer an’ you must ’ave give 
Carl as much whisky as beer. I’ll swear your business 
methods puzzles me more an’ more. I’ve been tryin’ sev- 
eral years to understand ’em an’ can’t. Here, I’m ready 

97 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


for my whisky now and you neednT mind doctorin’ it 
neither; I’m not needin’ a nap and ain’t got enough tin 
or paper to pay you.” 

McGregor glared at him angrily and Jack broke into a 
loud laugh. 

“Say, Mack, what made you so anxious ’bout that fel- 
ler’s health?” 

“It’s none o’ your business what I do an’ I don’t see 
what the Dickens you’re drivin’ at,” retorted McGregor. 

Again Jack laughed. 

“Oh, it ain’t none o’ my business ain’t it? Well, I sup- 
posed ’twas ; least ways when you clean your customers out 
so clean they can’t pay for their breakfast an’ I have to 
give it to ’em.” 

“Who says I cleaned anybody out? It’s a damned lie,” 
yelled McGregor, who was almost dancing with rage. 

If looks or thoughts could have killed him, then Jack 
Winters would not have left that saloon alive. But Mc- 
Gregor’s wrath only increased Jack’s levity and he re- 
sumed without noticing the interruption, except with a 
smile : 

“Over a half a thousand, too, Jon^s says ’twas; really 
now. Mack, I think you might divide up, long as I had to 
give him his breakfast.” 

“I hain’t got nothing to divide up an’ if you give ’im 
his breakfast it’s your own loss,” said McGregor. 

“Or maybe now you had to go pards with Smith to 
get him to help you,” suggested Jack, hoping to draw 
him into the argument. 

But Smith refused to be drawn as he knew not how 
to reply to his tormentor; bethinking him, however, of 
how Bunn’s clerk had silenced Jack, he glanced at the 
heavy bottle McGregor had left on the bar. But Jack’s 
hawklike eye saw everything; past experience had taught 
him watchfulness and he only laughed when he saw Smith’s 
glance rest on the bottle.” 

“Come, now. Smith, don’t try to play Stubbs with me. 
I never get caught twice in the same trap; you’d only 


98 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


break a glass or window and Hack’d make you pay for 
’em.” Jack rested his hand on his revolver as he spoke 
and Smith could plainly see its outline as it lay in his 
coat pocket. 

“Give me another swig now, then I’ll be goin’ though it 
always most breaks my heart to leave sich lovin’ com- 
panions.” 

“The same to you, pard,” observed Smith. 

Again Jack laughed. 

“Now, Smith, don’t try to be funny; tain’t becomin’ to 
everybody. I know you’re tickled most to death to see me 
come an’ no doubt weep bitter tears when I leave. All 
the same I’ll have to be goin’. And, Mack, you can jist 
take this off of what you owe Jones.” 

“I don’t owe Jones nothin’. Curse you, I wish you’d 
mind your own business,” said McGregor. 

“I do, and find plenty o’ time to help you mind yours 
if you’d let me. So long, gentlemen, so long. If you didn’t 
get Jones’ money. Mack, I’m sorry, ’cause I’m dead broke 
an’ am afraid I won’t be able to pay you soon.” And Jack 
vanished smiling through the door. 

Now, a little fun acted upon Jack Winters very much 
as a little whisky did upon Carl Newman; it only whetted 
his appetite for more, and the liquor he had taken did not 
have a dulling tendency. 

As he emerged from McGregor’s he saw Mr. Bunn stand- 
ing in the door of his saloon. 

“There, now, Bunn’s seen me and ’ll feel slighted if I 
don’t give him a call. ’Pears to me I ain’t been there 
since Stubbs introduced me to that beer bottle so un- 
ceremoniously. I’ll jist go over to let ’em know I’m still 
alive an’ hold a fiush hand.” A broad smile spread over 
Jack’s face as he reached this conclusion and saw Bunn 
turn from the door and close it. 

It vanished like magic, however, when he reached the 
door, which he opened with a kick, and revolver in hand 
walked in saying with an angry scowl: 


L OF C 


99 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Give ye jist half a minute to clear out o’ here, gen- 
tlemen; be quick; I’m goin’ to run this shebang myself 
awhile. Move lively now, an’ Stubbs don’t yovi dare to 
think of a beer bottle.” 

Stubbs looked at Bunn and Bunn looked at Stubbs; both 
looked at Jack, but they saw no sign of a joke about his 
scowling face. An ominous click decided them to obey his 
orders. 

“We better go, I reckon,” said Bunn, in a whisper. 
“He’s plum full o’ McGregor’s whisky an’ no tollin’ what 
he might do. It’s a strange thing to me why men will go 
to sich low ” 

Mr. Bunn was interrupted by a push from Jack that 
landed him on the further side of the walk. 

“Now, gentlemen, jist walk right in an’ have drinks all 
around,” said Jack, addressing a small crowd of loafers, 
who had noticed the disturbance, and came to see what 
it was about. “I won’t charge you a cent for the first 
drink. It’s a treat. I want you to taste my liquors for 
I’m certain if you’ll do that you’ll never go to Mack’s agin 
to git a drink. No respectable person goes there any more, 
an’ no wonder; he’s allers got a muss o’ some kind on his 
hands and fussin’ an’ fightin’ to beat the band. Now, I 
don’t have no sich doin’s. I keep things respectable and 
carry on my business in decency an’ in order, as the good 
book says it should be carried on; so come right in an’ see 
for yourselves.” And Jack re-entered the saloon followed 
by a few of the more jocularly inclined gentlemen of leisure. 
A few there were, however, who scented trouble and pos- 
sibly a trip to court and they turned to go. 

“Look here, gentlemen,” cried Bunn, who had carefully 
picked himself up from the walk, where Jack had deposited 
him. “Are you goin’ away and leave me this way? That 
outlandish feller’ll give all my best goods away or drink 
it hisself. Can’t some of you come an’ help me put him 
out?” 


100 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


But the men thus appealed to had little or no love for 
Bunn and rather enjoyed his present predicament. 

“No, thanks, Bunn. We don’t care to get mixed up in 
an’ argument with Jack today; looks to be a mite tipsy,” 
said one. 

“That’s right. I don’t feel any overpowerin’ longing to 
face a gun today, specially if Jack’s got a hold o’ the 
handle,” said another. “Let’s be gettin’ out o’ here, fel- 
lers.” And they walked away leaving Bunn and Stubbs 
standing irresolute, trying to decide upon some plan of 
action and wondering what would come next. 

They were not kept long in suspense, for scarcely had the 
departing loafers disappeared around the corner when Jack 
emerged from the saloon followed by his companions. 

“Well, gentlemen, how are you enjoyin’ your vacation? 
Don’t look like you hardly appreciated my kindness in leav- 
in’ my business to run itself an’ cornin’ over here jist to give 
you a rest. But come, cheer up. I say, Stubbs, give us 
a song; nothing like music to liven a feller up and you 
both look like you needed cheerin’ up. Hop right up here 
on this box an’ give us a lively tune. Yankee Doodle’ll 
do.” 

Stubbs was inclined to refuse at first but Jack leveled 
his revolver at him, saying: 

“Be quick or you’ll never have a chance to sing another 
song. I’ll lay you as fiat as you laid me with that beer 
bottle an’ you may not git up so quick. Up with you 
now.” 

Thus admonished Stubbs mounted the box and began 
singing the designated song in a rather doleful way that 
by no means suited his tormenter, who said: 

“Why, blast it, man, who ever heard Yankee Doodle sung 
in that funeral march way. You’ve got to sing it right 
afore you get down from there, an’ you’d jist as well get 
at it.” 

Stubbs gave a hasty glance around but saw no signs 
of sympathy from the bystanders, so he decided to do as 


101 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


requested and bide his time for revenge. He began again 
and sang the song through fast enough to suit even Jack, 
who said: 

“Well done, Mr. Stubbs; you may step down. Give him 
three cheers, gentlemen,” he added turning to the bystand- 
ers, who heartily responded. 

“Now,” continued Jack, as the noise subsided, “we will 
have a dance by Mr. Bunn. Hop right up, Bunn, an’ show 
these gentlemen how you can wiggle them little fat legs 
o’ your’n.” 

“Oh, really, Mr. Winters, I can’t dance; never could, 
besides my mother always said ’twas wrong,” said Bunn, 
turning pale. 

“Shut up, you old hypocrit,” said Jack, flourishing the 
revolver. “Ha, ha, ha, but that’s a talkin’ some I ’low. 
An’ didn’t she tell you ’twas wrong to sell liquor ’n cheat 
an’ lie? I’ll bet she did. Seems to me you’re rememberin’ 
you’re bringin’ up rather late, Bunn. But it’s no go; you 
can jist say a little longer prayer than you aimed to when 
you go out o’ this business an’ you’ll be all right. So up 
with you now; no monkeyin’ goes. I’ll whistle and you 
dance and mind you do it lively.” 

Jack’s face had grown sober and Bunn began to mount 
the box and Jack whistled a lively tune. > 

To say that Bunn’s attempt were ludicrous would be put- 
ting it mildly; the loafer roared with laughter and Jack 
at times could scarcely keep his mouth in whistling position. 

“Hang it, Bunn, can’t j^ou step livelier than that? Why, 
Barnum’s fat man could beat you dancin’. I’ll tell ye you 
won’t learn to dance no younger nor get lessons no cheap- 
er, so you’d better get down to business.” And Jack be- 
gan to whistle. 

Bunn tried again, but with little better success. The 
sweat began to pour down his face in streams although 
the day was cool, but Jack showed no signs of relenting; 
he kept whistling and motioning with his gun for Bunn 
to go on. 


102 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


At this point in the program John Reynolds appeared 
around the corner; he was crossing the street to the post 
office when his attention was attracted by the proceedings 
in front of Bunn’s saloon. 

“What’s Jack up to now I wonder,” was his mental com- 
ment, as he entered the office. He paused a moment, when 
he came out, to have a better look and a suspicion of a 
twinkle shone in his eyes as the full situation dawned up- 
on him. 

“I think that’s the same revolver I crippled for Jack, an’ 
if ’tis he can’t hurt anybody,” he mused. “Still it might 
not be an’ I reckon I’d better go over an’ see.” And he 
crossed the street and joined the group in front of Bunn’s. 
That gentleman paused in his hysterical performances and 
Jack said: 

“Morning, deacon. I’m just tryin’ to learn Bunn to 
dance. Never had such a dull scholar. He says his mother 
taught him ’twas wrong though, an’ I guess that’s the 
reason.” And Jack laughed. 

“Well, he’s danced enough today. Anyway you give me 
that gun. You might hurt somebody throwin’ it around 
so.” 

Again Jack’s laugh rang out. 

“Why, hang it, deacon, that’s the old thing you knocked 
the shoot out of a year or so ago. Tain’t loaded and it 
wouldn’t shoot if ’twas, but there ’tis if you want it.” 

John took the revolver and examined it, then handing it 
back said: 

“No, you couldn’t shoot anybody with that, but come on 
away from here now. You’ve had fun a plenty today and 
I want some salmon and pickles.” 

“All right, deacon.” Then turning to Bunn and Stubbs, 
he said: 

“Gentlemen, what I’ve done. I’ve done for your own good 
an’ I hope you won’t lay it up agin me. Tain’t healthy 
to stay shut up here all the time with so many spirits; a 

103 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

mite o’ exercise an’ fresh air’ll do you good. So long an’ 
the next time you’re tempted to pitch beer bottles, count 
on a day o’ reckonin’.” 

‘^You can count on a day o’ reckonin’ fer this,” mut 
tered Stubbs, but if Jack heard he made no reply. 

“Did you see him, deacon? Did you see him dance? 
My! but he’s graceful as an elephant.” 

“Now, Jack, you know you got in a muss there once be^ 
fore and got hurt; looks to me like you’d take warning from 
that and stay away. If you don’t you’re apt to get hurt 
worse. They ain’t no great love for you and this morn- 
ing’s fun won’t increase it any. I can’t understand you 
wantin’ to cut sich capers an’ run sich risks, an’ you’d 
better stay clear of ’em a spell.” They entered Jack’s 
place of business as John finished speaking and Jack said: 

“I know you’re givin’ me straight goods, deacon, but 
tain’t no use. I reckon I’m one o’ them as is born to dis- 
honor as the good book says an’ Stubbs or me one’s likely 
to cash in most any time. I could see that by the way he 
looked while he was singin’; you didn’t get there in tim6 
fer that, deacon. Well, I made him sing Yankee Doodle 
and I made him sing it lively. But say, deacon, if sich 
places ain’t to go to what are they for? Seems to me now 
I’m doin’ a patriotic act in helpin’ to keep ’em a goin.’ The 
government gits lots o’ money out of ’em an’ ’course the 
more whisky’s sold the more money it gets.” Jack’s pro- 
pensity for fun was cropping out again and he resolved to 
just have a little fun out of the deacon. 

“Patriotic! I don’t see how you make that out. You 
ought to be ashamed to talk so even in fun. To be patri- 
otic means to be the best citizen you can yourself and then 
to do all you can to help others do right,” replied John, in- 
dignantly. 

“Well, then, deacon, do you think these saloons, now for 
instance, do you think they help people to be good citi- 
zens?” asked Jack, smiling. 

“Of course they don’t; any sane man can see that,” an- 


104 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


swered John, wondering what Jack was driving at. yet 
resolved to humor him by answering his questions ; he knew 
Jack had been drinking. 

“Well, deacon, who’s responsible for ’em.” 

This question coming so unexpectedly brought to John’s 
mind his and Tom’s argument of the evening before and 
somewhat staggered the good deacon at first, but he replied 
promptly : 

“They ain’t nobody responsible but them that’s in the 
business and them that patronize ’em.” 

“Well, deacon, ’spose one man’d take a notion to kill 
another an’ take his money and there wasn’t anything done 
about it. Another feller sees it and there’s a man he don’t 
like an’ he jist goes an’ turns up his toes and takes his 
land an’ money, an’ there’s still nothin’ done till murder 
an’ robbery gets to be the thing; there wouldn’t be nobody 
to blame but the men that done the murders an’ the fools 
didn’t have sense enough to stay out o’ their way would 
they?” 

“Why — why of course they would. Everybody ’d be to 
blame for allowin’ it. The government first, then the peo- 
ple for upholdin’ sich a government,” replied John. 

“Jest so, deacon, jest so, but ’spose the government in- 
stead o’ stoppin’ it; that is instead o’ hangin’ the mur- 
derers; ups and passes laws allowin’ ’em jist to go on kill- 
in’ folks pervidin’ they pay the government so much fer 
the privilege or license an’ further insists that the man 
what gets the license must be of good moral character so 
as to have the job done up neat an’ in order I reckon; an’ 
that they shall have their killin’ place so far from a church, 
schoolhouse an’ so on, and mustn’t kill nobody but people 
over twenty-one. I ’spose the government wouldn’t be to 
blame would it?” 

“Yes, I reckon ’twould,” admitted John, “an’ of course 
the people ’d be to blame for supporting sich a govern- 
ment, yet it seems to me that’s different from the liquor 
business, for of course that’s what you’re meanin’. A 

105 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


murderer can slip up on his victim unaware, while a man 
or boy who begins to drink knows his danger an^ can let 
it alone if he wants to. Good an’ evil has always been in 
the world and men have always the power to choose good 
or evil as they please an’ when they choose evil I don’t 
see as they’ve any right to lay it on the government or other 
people.” 

“Purty good, deacon, but we ain’t always had saloons 
in the world, an’ I’ve knowed people to be kind o’ slipped 
up on unawares by the liquor business, too. I was, a little, 
myself. When I was about fifteen I began clerkin’ fer a 
grocer an’ he kep what you call a blind tiger. Well, he 
took a drink or two a day and always offered me a drink 
too, an’ I generally took it. The boss himself was a church 
member an’ some punkin, an’ I thought if he could drink 
an’ sell liquor on the sly an’ be so much thought of ’twas 
not so bad after all. My father an’ mother died when I 
was a little shaver an’ I’d lived fii'st one place an’ then 
another, till I went to live with the grocer. I stayed with 
him three years an’ then joined a lumber gang an’ came out 
here. I stayed with them three years more and then 
came to this place; you know about how I’ve lived since. 
Oh, yes, deacon, a liquor seller can slip up on his man as 
well as a murderer. I’ve knowed ’em to treat boys on the 
sly an’ make drunkards of ’em; an’ then, deacon, the mur- 
dered man’s apt to be a good man an’ go to glory when 
he’s killed, but a drunkard you tell me has no chance. 
Take it all around, deacon, I think the liquor business is 
worse than the murderin’ business ’d be. It kills soul an’ 
body, too.” 

“It’s bad enough I know,” replied John, “but. Jack, 
you know better now than to drink, an’ I believe you could 
quit if you’d try.” 

“I have tired,” said Jack, dropping his jesting mood. 
“I’ve tried hard, it seems to me, but it always ends in me 
gettin’ slipped up on some way; sometimes I jist fergit and 
sometimes I begin with a friend. I begun jist to get a 


106 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


joke on Mack this mornin\” And Jack smiled at the re- 
membrance of it. 

“It’s mighty dangerous jokin’ I’m thinkin’,” replied 
John, gathering up his parcels, “and as I said you’d bet- 
ter keep away from there an’ Bunn’s too.” And John 
walked out. But he could not set all Jack’s words down 
as simply the ravings of a drunken man, as he tried to do. 

“Tom must ’ave been a talkin’ to him now,” he thought, 
“and it does kind o’ seem to me a body ought to be tryin’ 
to stop it, but I kind o’ thought when the old Union was 
saved an’ the niggers free everything was about done.” 


107 


CHAPTER VII. 


One evening about a week later as Mr. Everett and 
family were retiring for the night, Carl Newman little 
boy rushed in saying: 

"‘Oh, Mr. Everett, won’t you come quick? My papa’s 
sick an’ mama’s afraid of him, an’ I am too. Do come 
quick.” And the child began to cry. 

“Yes, I’ll come,” said Mr. Everett, reaching for his hat 
and coat, intending to accompany the child, but no sooner 
had he been assured that Mr. Everett would go than he 
darted out of the door and ran to inform his mother of 
the success of his errand. 

“I reckon it’s the tremens he’s got,” said Mr. Everett 
to his wife. “He’s bin drinkin’ agin, and has had ’em sev- 
eral times before. I don’t like to be by myself with him, 
but I don’t know who to ask to go ’long.” 

“Surely, any one would go,” said Mrs. Everett. “Think 
of that poor woman and hurry Dan. Ask the first man 
you come across.” 

And thus admonished Mr. Everett hurried out. He had 
not touched liquor since his child was buried and was sav- 
ing money to buy a home. 

He hurried along in the darkness as best he could, but 
could not see a yard before him and a cold rain was setting 
in. He was over half way to the Newman house and be- 
gan to fear he would have to go alone when he was obliged 
to stop short and step to one side in order to avert a collision 
with some one who proved to be Tom Long. 

“Why, hello, Everett, where ’re you rushin’ to in the rain 
and dark? Anybody sick?” 

“Somethings wrong over to Newman’s an’ his boy just 
came for me. ’Spect it’s the jimmies an’ I don’t like go- 


108 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 

in’ by myself. Couldn’t go ’long, could you?” said Mr, 
Everett. 

‘‘Well, I could, now,” replied Tom, reflectively. “ ’Tain’t 
jist the kind of a job a feller ’d hanker after though. But 
somebody’ll have to go, an’ as you say a feller wouldn’t 
want to be by hisself. Yes, I’ll go. Come on.” 

They soon reached the Newman home and entering to 
Mrs. Newman’s come in, they saw a pitiful but revolting 
scene. 

Carl himself sat on an old trunk at one side of the 
room, leaning against the wall. He seemed utterly ex- 
hausted: his eyes were blood-shotten and his face ghastly 
pale. He wore neither coat nor vest. One hand hung list- 
lessly by his side and with the other he kept pulling at his 
suspender or brushing restlessly at his clothing. He 
stared vacantly at Tom and Mr. Everett, but did not speak. 

“He’s most wore hisself out,” said Mrs. Newman, a meek 
looking little woman, with a child of about six months, 
in her arms. “He’s been bad two or three days and don’t 
eat anything. I couldn’t get him to bed’s why I sent for 
you. The doctor’s out of town.” 

“We’re glad to help you if we can. Reckon he’ll go to 
bed now?” asked Tom. 

“I can’t say. He thinks there’s everything in the bed, 
but you can try.” 

Tom approached Carl saying: 

“Come on now, Carl, and rest a bit, you’re plum sick.” 

Carl allowed them to lead him to the bed, and lay down 
Avithout objecting and Tom and Mr. Everett were silently 
congratulating themselves on their good management when 
Carl sprang up with a loud shriek : 

“Take ’em away. Let me out; the bed’s full of ’em, 
can’t ye see? They’re all over me.” And the poor fellow 
brushed frantically at his clothes and the bed. 

The men were at his side instantly. 

“There ain’t nothin’ here, Carl,” said Tom, throwing 
back the covers. “See? The bed’s all right. Get back in 
and I’ll stay here by you.” 


109 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“No, I won’t. They’re all over me I tell ye. Can’t you 
help me get ’em off?” And Carl rubbed his sides with 
his hands and brushed his face violently in his attempts to 
free himself from the imaginary reptiles. 

Tom Long had seen many cases of drunkenness in his 
life. He even remembered the time when cases akin to 
this had appealed to his sense of humor. But he wondered 
now how he ever could have seen anything funny in them. 
On the contrary there was that in Carl’s white, drawn face, 
wild eyes and trembling body that almost horrified him, 
strong man that he was, and he stood looking at Carl a 
moment, powerless and mystified. 

Carl was growing more and more frantic. Now he would 
brush at his clothes or stamp on the fioor in his effort to 
shake something from them. The cold sweat was stand- 
ing out upon his forehead. Now he was calling them to 
help him and now cursing frightfully at the supposed rep- 
tiles even when he could not speak above a whisper for 
very exhaustion or want of breath. 

Finally he began tearing out his hair in great hand- 
fulls, and throwing it upon the floor he would stamp upon 
it as though trying to kill something. 

As Tom watched the frenzied efforts of the lost man 
to rid himself of his imaginary enemies and listened to his 
curses and blasplemy, a nameless horror crept over him and 
he seemed for the moment unable to move or speak. There 
was a creepy, crawly sensation at the roots of his hair 
he had never felt since when as a boy he had been fright- 
ened with ghost stories. He felt that he was in the pres- 
ence of something that was not earthly. Neither could he 
believe it to be heavenly. He saw Carl on the edge of a 
frightful chasm with some unseen hand drawing him closer 
and closer each moment. 

Mrs. Newman clasped her babe to her bosom and rushed 
from the room, followed by her older child. 

Tom roused himself with difficulty, and said : 

“Good God, Everett, something’s got to be done. He’s 
slippin’ right into hell before our very eyes.” 


110 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Do you know anything to do? I don’t/’ was the reply. 

“But if you’ll stay with him, I’ll go to see if the doctor’s 
back.” 

“Well, go then, but for the Lord’s sake hurry. I can’t 
stand this long by myself,” said Tom. 

Mr. Everett started on his errand and again Tom tried to 
soothe Carl, going toward him he said: “Now Carl, I think 
they’re all olf. Let me help you.” And he brushed the 
trembling and exhausted man all over himself. ‘ ‘ There now, 
they’re all off and you must lay down and rest again.” And 
he led him toward the bed. Once or twice he made a feeble 
effort to resist but was now so weak that Tom had little dif- 
ficulty in managing him with his one arm. Carl lay quiet 
but a few moments when he again began struggling with 
the bed clothes in his attempt to arise. But Tom was re- 
solved he should remain quiet, so he pushed him gently back, 
saying, “Just be still Carl: Nothin’s goin’ to hurt ye, an’ 
yair’e about played out tearin’ round so — easy now.” 

As Carl’s struggles grew more violent. The wretched man 
was cursing with every breath, though his voice was scarcely 
above a whisper, and swearing such frightful oaths that 
turned Tom’s heart sick within him. Strong rough man as 
he was, words could not express the fear, horror and utter 
helplessness he felt as he stood over Carl through that long 
night and watched his struggles in the very grasp of Satan. 

After what seemed to Tom an age Mr. Everett returned 
alone, out of breath and covered with mud. “He hadn’t 
got back so I found out where he was and went after him, 
but he couldn’t leave: a woman dyin’ they think, but he 
sent this: said it ’d quiet him.” Mr. Everett prepared the 
medicine and with much difficulty forced it between Carl’s 
clinched teeth. “I ’lowed you’d think I’d left you, but I 
ran all the way there an’ back,” said Mr. Everett. 

“ ’Twas bad on ye; but I’m glad you got the medicine. 
He’s most wore out,” replied Tom. 

It was nearly two hours before the medicine took any ef- 
fect and to their dying days Mr. Everett and Tom Long 
will not forget those two hours beside the lost and ruined 


111 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

man, and for days after Carl’s shrieks and curses rang in 
their ears. 

“You an’ me ought to be thankful Dan, that we escaped 
such a fate as this,” said Tom, after Carl became more 
quiet. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Everett. “It’s awful. An’ even if the 
Bible didn’t tell what a drunkard’s end is, nobody could 
doubt it after seein’ one like this.” 

“Carl told me he wasn’t goin to drink any more: said he 
had to quit and I was kind o’ surprised when I heard he 
was at it agin’, cause Carl could let it alone a long time if 
he wanted to,” said Mr. Everett. 

“Well, a feller’s apt to say that and mean it too an’ then 
not stick to it,” replied Tom. 

Carl slept or rested almost an hour when he again became 
restless. He was given more medicine and held in the bed 
by main force for the brief rest had made him stronger. 
But why linger over his suffering? The struggle went on 
more or less violent another two hours when Carl sank back 
on the pillows gasping for breath. 

“It’s no use lettin’ him get up, he couldn’t stand,” said 
Tom. 

“No. He’s better off in bed, an’ he’d jist wear hisself out 
anyhow,” agreed Mr. Everett. 

But that struggle was Carl’s last, for soul and body parted 
almost before they finished speaking. 

“He’s gone, I believe,” said Tom, bending over the bed 
and taking Carl’s hand. The dead man’s face was purple 
and his eyes starting from their sockets. “Yes, he’s dead,” 
continued Tom, looking at Mr. Everett in a dazed, question- 
ing way. Both men remained quiet for some minutes, stupi- 
fied by the awful fate of the departed soul that both could 
feel and realize, though neither could have put their feel- 
ings into words. 

“What had we better do first?” asked Mr. Everett, who 
was the first to recover. “We’ll have to tell his wife of 
course.” 


112 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Yes,’’ said Tom. “She’ll have to know first, then we 
can dress him.” 

But when informed that her husband was dead Mrs. New- 
man fell across the bed in strong hysterics and passed from 
one fainting fit to another. Her nerves had been taxed be- 
yond their endurance and with this last strain had given 
away entirely. The two men looked helplessly at each other 
a moment. 

“I’ll go for my wife,” said Mr. Everett. “She’ll know 
what to do.” 

“Go past and send John over too,” said Tom. “I feel 
weaker ’n a woman myself, and want to get away from 
here.” 

It was daylight now and the sun was just rising as John 
entered. 

“You’ve had a night of it, Everett says,” he remarked to 
Tom in a low voice by way of greeting. 

“May the good Lord save me from such another,” was 
the reply. 

Mr. and Mrs. Everett now reached the house and the lat- 
ter induced Mrs. Newman to leave the room. She re- 
mained with her until she became more calm, then she found 
clothes in which to dress the dead man, and while the men 
were preparing him for burial she prepared breakfast for 
the children. 

Not until Carl’s body was ready for burial did Tom take 
his leave, then, as he stood in the doorway John looked at 
him a moment curiously and said in surprise, “Why, Tom, 
I never noticed you bein’ so grey before. Your hair’s white 
as snow. ’ ’ 

Tom stared at his friend a moment in wonder, then turned 
to a mirror on the wall. He could scarcely believe his eyes 
at first, for his hair that on the previous evening had only 
been slightl}^ streaked with gray was almost white. 

At last he smiled grimly and said : 

“Wall, I don’t think I needed that to remind me o’ last 
night, but the Lord knows, an’ I call on Him to witness. 


113 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


that from this day I’ll fight the cussed liquor business as 
long as I live, if He ’ll only show me how. ’ ’ 

And Tom pulled his hat well over his eyes and walked 
from the room. 

Jack Winters was standing in the doorway of his restaur- 
ant and as Tom was passing he said : 

“So poor Carl’s gone sure enough, has he?” 

“Yes; he’s been dead a couple o’ hours now,” was the 
reply. 

“Well, Mack’s to thank fer that I reckon.” And Jack 
told of Jones’ loss at McGregor’s on the day Carl began 
drinking, adding, “And I’m satisfied he gave Carl whisky 
instead o’ druggin’ him. Of course I don’t know just how 
it worked Carl, but I can drink beer and it won’t make me 
want whisky, and I know of others further along than I 
am that can do the same. Then too. Mack ’d a had to a 
either drugged him or got him drunk before he could a got 
’im away from Jones, and he didn’t drug him.” 

Tom’s swarthy face had grown dark and terrible while 
Jack was speaking and as he finished Tom turned and strode 
across the street toward McGregor’s saloon, while Jack 
looked after him in surprise. 

“Well, the Devil I say! Who ever thought o’ startin’ 
him off like that? If it had been the Deacon now — but he 
ain’t no match for Mack with that one arm. I better go see 
after him I reckon.” And Jack started in pursuit of Tom. 
He paused, however, when he reached the door of the sa- 
loon. 

Tom had seized McGregor by the coat collar and was 
shaking him violently, while the latter was evidently too 
much astonished to resist. 

“You infernal imp o’ Satan,” Tom was saying. “Did 
you or did you not mix Carl’s beer with whisky? Tell me 
before I shake the life out o’ your worthless carcass.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Mr. Long,” 
stammered McGregor. 

“Well, then, Carl Newman’s jist died: slid right into hell 
afore our very eyes, an’ we couldn’t do a thing. He had 


114 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


the jimmies: he begun drinkin’ right here in your saloon 
an’ Jack says you tricked him into takin’ the first drink 
an’ by heaven if I was sure you did you’d never live to 
send another man to the devil: No, sir; I’d kill you right 
here. Why the very hogs on the street ’d run from you if 
they had sense. The devil and his angels ’ll no doubt get 
scared at their own work and hide when they see you cornin’ 
to join ’em.” 

So spoke this uncouth westerner, betrayed for the moment 
into feelings of common justice. Doubtless when calmer 
moments came Tom would remember that McGregor had a 
right, granted him by the most enlightened people in the 
world, to ruin and send to hell just as many human souls 
as he could cajole or trick into being sent. Perhaps when 
he remembered this he would repent his words and acts. 
But now as he towered above McGregor, white with anger 
he felt that he would be doing the world a good turn by 
choking the life out of the cowering wretch before him. 
Instead, however, after another violent shake Tom flung 
him from him and left the place. 

And McGregor’s black soul dimly understood for the 
moment and silently recognized the justice of the punish- 
ment for he neither lifted a hand in defense nor sought 
redress in earthly courts. 

Carl was buried next day. Caught, poor fellow, in an un- 
guarded moment, when he thought he was safe, and sold to 
the devil for money y and the monster in human guise who 
does this work is protected in it by that world-wide emblem 
of freedom, our, to us, beautiful flag. But what an unsightly 
thing this same flag must be in the sight of Jehovah, God, as, 
dyed red with the blood of many such as Carl, at home, it 
floats over shipload after shipload of rum, protecting them 
in their deadly mission to the helpless and unsuspecting 
heathen beyond the sea. 


115 


CHAPTER VIII. 


“William, what upon earth is all that noise up the street 
about? Surely there’s a fire or something,” said Miss Bell- 
mont, coming hurriedly into the library one evening, where 
her nephew lay reading. 

William tossed his paper aside and opening a window he 
listened a moment in silence then threw back his head and 
laughed. 

“But this is a good one aunt,” he said, laughing still. 
“Why, you’ve always been such a stickler for patriotism you 
ought to be able to recognize it in any form.” 

“Patriotism,” repeated she in surprise. 

“Certainly,” said William, enjoying her puzzled looks. 
“That commotion is nothing more nor less than grand old 
American patriotism turned loose and goin’ at full speed. 
Fires and tornadoes are not to be compared with it for de- 
structive ability once it gets under a full head of steam and 
a fair start. In short, if we did not have a sort of safety 
valve in the shape of a Fourth of July once a year there 
would doubtless be few of us left when the campaign is over 
to enjoy the great peace and prosperity always promised at 
such times. Yes, aunt, you may doubtless have forgotten 
that this was campaign year and that we have just had an 
election. Well, those ear-splitting shrieks and squeaking 
horns are meant to show forth the rejoicing of the victorious 
party, which has just saved this beloved country of ours from 
going to rack and ruin for another four years.” 

Miss Bellmont made no reply, but thoroughly disgusted, 
she sat silently listening to the tumult that seemed growing 
louder and nearer. William resumed: 

“Of course, having always lived in such an out-of-the- 
way corner of the globe as Bellmont, you can’t know much 


116 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


about the world at large. This patriotism now seems to 
be a sort of perennial affliction, more acute in the summer 
and fall of every fourth year, and confined chiefiy to men 
and boys. Therefore, being only a woman, you cannot 
understand the grand emotions that stir the breasts of men 
and boys, and prompt such actions as these. ’ ’ And William 
nodded toward the street below, where the noisy throng was 
passing. 

“Mercy on us! Won’t somebody be killed?” said Miss 
Bellmont, who did not reply to William’s remarks, and it is 
doubtful if she heard them. 

“Probably there will,” replied he, coolly. “The disease 
frequently proves fatal, while many are left crippled for 
life. Sick persons are made worse, and some are fright- 
ened to death; but what of that? We must show our 
patriotism at any cost.” 

“William, you don’t approve of such performances as 
this?” said his aunt, severely. 

“It matters little whether I approve or not. They go 
on just the same,” was the reply. “But this is only the 
end of the show. You should witness it from the begin- 
ning in order to judge of its possibilities as an entertain- 
ment and to form any idea of how one of our free American 
political campaigns must impress one newly arrived on the 
field of action.” 

“William, you would make one of our most sacred insti- 
tutions nothing but a ridiculous comedy,” reproved Miss 
Bellmont. 

“I am neither making nor unmaking it,” said he. “I’m 
only describing it as I find it looks to many persons to-day, 
and I insist I have seen but little in the last few years to cause 
me to doubt their judgment. Let me describe just one cam- 
paign to you as it looks to me, if I can. Come, now, you 
have always accused me of skepticism; for once I will be a 
simple-hearted body with implicit faith in all men. We 
are at the beginning of a Presidential campaign, and I am 
anxious to vote for the best interests of my country if I 
can learn what they are. I employ the usual methods of 

117 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


learning at such times — subscribe for a newspaper and 
attend the first political gathering I hear of. I listen 
attentively and begin to wonder if the men the speaker 
is describing are anywhere outside the penitentiary or 
lunatic asylum. Such a gang as they must be ! and 
banded together to rob the people and ruin the government. 
His opponents of course. Surely no one would vote for 
such men and I go away feeling that I have made up my 
mind. But in a few days another man comes along equally 
as brilliant and long winded as his predecessor and he in- 
forms us that the other man is the villian in the show and 
that everything he said were gross fabrications. 

Now to my extremely wise and superior friend, who is 
fixed and immovable politically, this is all very plain: his 
man is right and the other wrong, and he is surprised at my 
want of intelligence, while his equally wise and immovable 
brother in the opposite party is quite as certain that his man 
is right and the other wrong and he is equally amazed at my 
stupidity, but I, the poor undecided voter am sorely puzzled 
to know who has lied. ' 

Finally, however, I make up my mind one way or the 
other and no sooner do I do so than I catch the disease my- 
self and whoop and yell and become generally as ridiculous 
as any one. Election day comes and my recently adopted 
party is successful. I feel as jubilant as though I had just 
discovered the north pole or invented perpetual motion. But 
what has become of our windy friends ? I had supposed the 
rejoicings of the one and lamentations of the other would be 
heard from Maine to California. I seek them in shady groves 
and at the rear end of passing trains where they were wont 
to be found, and lo, they are not. I wonder if they have 
effected a meeting somewhere and swallowed each other 
bodily. Anyway they seem utterly to have disappeared 
from the face of the earth : the small boy and the melodious 
tin horn have taken their places and I go cheering them 
about instead. Pandemonium breaks loose everywhere and 
each one vies with the other in adding to the general up- 
roar as you have just observed. 


118 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


While speaking William had been slowly pacing the floor: 
his hands behind him and an amused smile on his lips, as he 
spoke the last words he paused a moment in front of his 
aunt who said reprovingly: 

“I think, William, instead of ridiculing the men who are 
devoting their lives to the good and welfare of your country 
you would better be trying to help them.” 

“I am not ridiculing men who are devoting their lives to 
the good and welfare of my country. I am speaking of the 
men who are devoting their lives to the good and welfare 
of their own pocketbooks and their own honor and glory, 
at the expense of my country,” replied he. “Let me see; 
where was I? Oh, yes.” And William resumed his walk. 
“We are nearing the end of the final act, but what has be- 
come of our windy friends ? Fear not for them. They have 
gone whence they came. If they have been elected to some 
office they sit them quietly down to enjoy the fatness there- 
of and straight way forgets pledges or promises alike and 
the more money they get for forgetting the faster they for- 
get. Or, if they have been defeated they hie them away 
to some secluded nook and prepare to find fault with their 
successful rivals. If this government cannot be run by them 
and their party they are going to move heaven and earth, 
or at least their part of the earth, to keep any one else 
from running it; so they keep up a continual howl of some 
sort until campaign year comes again when they come forth 
from their lair, enticed either by a political plum or a sum 
of money, takes on a fresh supply of wind ‘influence’ and 
patriotism and again starts howling about the earth seeking 
whom they may devour and if one is to judge from the gap- 
ing, cheering crowds that greet them from time to time then 
that arch inventor of humbugs, Phineas T. Barnum, was 
right when he said the American people loved to be hum- 
bugged. Verily we enjoy being devoured.” 

William paused a moment and leaning on the mantle 
gazed reflectively into the fire while his aunt remarked: 
“It seems to me you are wanting in respect, William, still I 
suppose you are in a better position to judge than I, and 
I know there is something wrong, else our laws would be 

119 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


enforced and crime lessened. You were something or other 
yourself once were you not? I don’t remember just now 
what it was but you told me something of it at the time.” 

William smiled as he replied: “No, aunt, I was never 
anything. I was not elected: what is more I was not even 
nominated. It was on this wise: Shortly after my mar- 
riage some of my friends asked me to allow them to present 
me as a candidate for nomination for an important city 
office. Now, in order to fully appreciate my feelings at the 
discoveries I made you must remember you had taught me 
that our chief officials were men of uncompromising honor: 
fitting examples for me to follow and imitate. Along with 
this you will remember you taught me never to countenance 
evil in any form or to compromise with it in any way. 
‘Go not thou with the world to do evil,’ ‘Have no fellowship 
with the unfruitful works of darkness,’ and like passages 
were kept constantly before me and I had tried to respect 
them, with varied success. Listen then and tremble at the 
brilliant career you doubtless spoiled by your old-fashioned 
bringing up. First though I would add that up to this 
time I had almost idolized my party : it could do no wrong : 
The opposite party consisted chiefly of a species of lunatics, 
harmless as long as kept out of power. I find that most 
men have experienced the same feelings while a few stub- 
bornly cling to them through life. 

“I fancied when my friends asked me to become a candi- 
date for nomination that they saw in me the prerequisite 
to a good and true official and I resolved if elected not to 
disappoint them. I had not been in the city two years 
without learning something of the corruption of its manage- 
ment and I was determined that with my part of it there 
should be no cause for complaint. My friends who had 
recognized my ability should not be disappointed. 0, vain 
and presumptions youth that I was! Judge of my humilia- 
tion and chagrin when I learned I had been selected solely 
for the money my father-in-law and myself would likely 
contribute to the campaign fund and the ‘pull’ we would 
have on the factory hands. But the hardest blow was yet 

120 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


to fall for I pocketed my wounded pride and continued the 
tight. One night at a meeting where I had made the leading 
speech the ‘boss’ came to me when the meeting closed and 
said: 

“Hang it all, Bellmont, do you want to kill yourself?” 

I looked my surprise and he continued : 

“Well, that’s just what you are doing politically. You 
don’t want to come out against some things as you do. I 
find most young men make this mistake and I thought I’d 
warn you in time. You must talk to suit your crowd, and 
the crowd you’ve just addressed don’t want reforms. 
You’ve left a bad impression and must do something to re- 
move it. The people of this ward are accustomed to treats 
of almost all kinds; they look upon it as their right and 
upon this ward almost entirely depends your election if 
you are nominated. Now if you don’t care to do it yourself 
and will leave a hundred or so with me I will undertake to 
smooth matters over for you. ’ ’ 

“And how will you go about this smoothing?” I asked. 
“If I am to furnish the money to do it, I want to know 
how it is to be done.” 

“Well, most candidates prefer to furnish the money and 
ask no questions, but if you want to know it’s something 
like this. First I shall explain to the ward leaders that 
your speech was intended only as a blind to those who fa- 
vored reform. Then I shall leave sums of money at differ- 
ent saloons for treats, having it understood that it comes 
from you ; where money or anything else is preferred I shall 
furnish it instead of the treats, but this ward is composed 
largely of liquor dealers and it’s going to take some slick 
talking to convince them you didn’t mean all you said this 
evening about making them abide by the laws, but I be- 
lieve I can do it if I’m not limited as to money. Then if 
you are nominated, and I think there is little doubt of it, 
it will take from four to six thousand to carry the ward 
for you.” 

I was appalled at this shameless acknowledgment of crime ; 
it was made in such a matter of course way and I have 


121 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


learned since that men can actually tamper with and cozen 
crime until they are unable to judge right and wrong, but 
I resolved now to probe the matter to the bottom and taking 
out pencil and book I asked : 

“And how much will it take to carry the other wards? 
Since I’m in for this run I want to know all about it.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, probably a few thousand will carry them all. It will 
depend considerably on how much the other man is willing 
to pay.” 

I was gaining wisdom fast. 

“And how am I to make back all this?” I asked, feeling 
there was more for me to learn. “The salary is not large.” 

“No; the salary is small, but you can easily double it if 
you are smart,” said this sage of political ethics. “You can 
make much of it back off of this same ward by not taking 
too close notice of the crimes and misdemeanors and much 
more off of the city in different ways. The present incum- 
bent, I believe, has made a snug fortune since he’s been in 
office, but you are young and will need to use some caution.” 

More knowledge for me. Verily I was becoming surfeited 
with wisdom. I looked at my “boss” more closely. A 
bloated form, red eyes and a repulsive visage were his 
chief characteristics. He also smelled strongly of rum. 
And this was the man I was to obey if I hoped to make a 
successful campaign. I must furthermore furnish money to 
buy whisky for our mill hands and make it back by cheat- 
ing the city or closing my eyes to crime. 

I resolved not to be “bossed.” I remarked as much to 
my would-be “boss.” I also told him if it required a thief 
to fill the office successfully I had not prepared myself for 
the place and that he would have to look for a nominee else- 
where, for I would neither furnish money to buy votes or 
to furnish liquor for my would-be supporters. I left him 
staring after me as though he doubted my sanity. My 
father-in-law tried to reason with me. I was right in theory, 
he admitted, but practically such procedure would do little 
good. Some one less conscientious would secure the office 
and I had thrown away a chance to be of service in im- 


122 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


proving the city management. He almost convinced me 1 
had acted rashly, but later in the campaign when I saw 
men staggering from saloons shouting and hiccoughing for 
their favorite candidate I in no wise regretted my de- 
cision. ’ ’ 

“But, William, surely our higher officials do not know 
of this dishonest way of securing votes ? ’ ’ 

“Then it is because they do not wish to know. I have 
made somewhat of a study of political proceeding since that 
rude awakening, and I defy any man to go through a cam- 
paign of today successfully, and use strictly honorable 
means, that is, if he has any competition in the shape of un- 
principled opponents. And what are young men to think 
when they come to know this? They have been taught to 
love, honor and try to imitate the prominent men of today. 
What then must they conclude when brought face to face 
with our politics? as he must be sooner or later. If he has 
been taught the first principles of common honesty he can- 
not fail to see the vein of fraud and crime running through 
the whole. What then should he do?” 

“I should think he would better set about remedying 
them,” said Miss Bellmont, decidedly. 

“Straight to the point as usual, aunt,” replied William, 
smiling. “But how is he to set about remedying it? You 
would be surprised at the number of persons who do not 
want politics remedied. Who want men in our offices and 
legislatures that they can buy or influence, and would fight 
any change as disastrous to their interests. The railroad 
magnate, for instance, wants men he can induce to work 
for him, while the liquor dealer wants men who will, for a 
consideration, look after his interests and so on. What is 
to be done about it? There is never a dearth of candidates 
either. There are many so-called Christian men who, in 
the heat of a campaign furnish money for drinks and then 
partake of the sacrament of their Lord as unconscionably as 
though they had not pushed their weaker brother a step 
nearer the awful pit. What can be done about it? If you 
can puzzle it all out, aunt, you will have solved some of the 
problems of the age.” And William resumed his paper. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


And now, if you please, we will follow Paul Rivers 
through a portion of one of his busy days among the desti- 
tute and distressed of that great city. 

Early in the morning he visited the sick and afflicted in 
the crowded tenements. Two years ago these same tene- 
ments were so dangerous that it was as much as one’s life 
was worth to venture into them unprotected, but all that was 
now changed and by this one man’s efforts. The rooms 
though small were mostly clean and neat and the occupants 
self-respecting and self-supporting in a large measure, 
though Paul Rivers still treated those in need of a physician 
and as he passed from room to room either to attend a 
patient or to learn the needs of some dependant, he might 
have been pardoned a feeling of pride or exultation at the 
result of his work. But he felt neither ; he had no time for 
them: his whole mind was absorbed in doing and he was 
well content for his Master to note the results and receive 
all the praise. 

In one room there was a boy of six crippled for life by a 
drunken father. In another there was an aged woman 
whose only son had been killed in a drunken brawl. Pie 
had been her only support and she was a hopeless paralytic : 
hence she was destitute. 

Can you wonder that cases of this kind and many worse 
ones that might be mentioned served to rouse his antagon- 
ism and kept him bold to war against the liquor traffic in 
what seemed the very face of defeat ? 

When his work here was finished he went to the jail room. 
Here it was his custom to meet criminals more or less hard- 
ened almost daily. 

The first persons interviewed this morning were two boys 
who were evidently much distressed and ashamed. 


124 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Well, boys, why are you here?” he asked. 

“We — I guess we was drinkin,” replied one. 

“Yesterday?” — and Mr. Rivers produced notebook and 
pencil. 

“Yes, sir; we didn’t aim to, but got with some others an’ 
was led into it.” 

“How old are you?” Was the next question asked 
‘ ‘ And you will tell me your names, please. ’ ’ 

“My name’s Bob Carpenter, and I’m nineteen,” said one. 

“I’m John Oaker, and I’m twenty,” replied the other. 

“Well, boys, where did you get your liquor?” now asked 
Mr. Rivers. “If you will be strictly honest with me I may 
be able to help you.” 

“We got it at Sanders.” 

‘ ‘ Did Mr. Sanders know you were under age ? ’ ’ asked Mr. 
Rivers. 

“I don’t know. He didn’t ask us, and we didn’t tell 
him. ’ ’ 

“Well, boys, you must learn to think and be on the look- 
out for danger hereafter or you will make wrecks of your 
own lives and sadden those of your friends. Do your par- 
ents or friends know where you are?” 

“I ain’t got no parents or friends,” replied the boy who 
gave the name of John Oaker. 

“My mother don’t know where I’m at,” said Bob Carpen- 
ter. “And I don’t want her to. She’d rather hear I was 
dead.” 

“I think not,” said Mr. Rivers. “And if you will tell me 
where she lives I will undertake to inform her.” 

“She’ll have to know, I reckon. But you’ll tell her I’m 
sorry, won’t you?” And the boy’s lip began to tremble. 
“She lives at 230 Sixth street.” 

“I will tell her you are very sorry, and that you have 
learned a lesson you will not soon forget. Is it not so?” 
answered Mr. Rivers. 

“Yes; if I get out o’ this I’ll stay clear o’ whisky the 
rest o’ my life.” And Paul Rivers turned away. 

“If you’ve got time, sir, there’s a woman over there you 

125 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

ought to see/’ said the jailer. “She was brought in Satur- 
day night and seems so downhearted, you might cheer her 
up a little.” 

“I will see her.” And Mr. Rivers followed the jailer to 
a door on the opposite side of the house. The jailer opened 
the door and Mr. Rivers entered and the door was again 
closed. He saw sitting on a stool a woman of fifty or sixty 
years of age. Her head was bowed in her hands and her 
back was toward the door and she neither moved nor spoke 
when Paul Rivers entered. He walked around and paused 
in front of her, but she did not raise her head. But Paul 
Rivers was accustomed to all forms of greeting and said 
kindly : 

“Good morning, Mrs. Meeks. I came, hoping to be able 
to serve you in some way. Will you tell me your trouble?” 
Then she lifted her face, deeply lined with grief or remorse 
and looked at her visitor a moment in silence with a pair of 
dark eyes from which looked intense suffering and despair. 
Then she replied in a cold, hard voice : 

“It would do no good and would only keep you from 
more worthy subjects. No; you are only wasting your time 
and may as well go.” And she dropped her head back in 
her hands as though to end the conversation. 

“You will let me be the judge of that,” replied Paul 
Rivers. “God is able to save to the uttermost, and no mat- 
ter how great your crime, he is faithful to forgive if you 
are penitent. Shall we read or pray?” 

Again the woman raised her face and replied in the same 
cold unnatural voice: 

“Neither. Prayer is for the penitent and the reading of 
His word for those who do His will.” 

“But surely if you have committed a crime you are sorry 
and wish God’s f orgivenness, ” persisted Mr. Rivers. He 
could feel nothing but pity for the unfortunate woman, for 
she did not look like one hardened in crime. 

“It’s no use, I tell you. I have committed — or tried to 
commit a murder, and I do not repent. No, I only wish I’d 


126 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


succeeded,” she added fiercely. ‘‘So you see, it’s no use 
wasting your time on me.” 

But Paul Rivers felt he could not leave her so and after 
a moment’s thought he said: 

“Would you mind telling me about it. Some one must 
have done you some great wrong.” 

“No; I can’t say he did. In the eyes of the law he was 
only going about his own business. In plain words, then,” 
she added, seeing her visitor’s puzzled look. “He was only 
offering my boy a drink of rum. ’ ’ 

“Ah, and you thought he was trying to make a drunk- 
ard of him — had he ever tasted liquor before?” 

“No, sir,” was the brief reply. 

“Then what made you so afraid for him to taste it?” 
persisted Mr. Rivers, thinking if she could only be induced 
to talk of her sin or grief it would relieve her mind and 
save the reason he feared was already tottering. “To be 
sure the first drink is dangerous but not enough so to justi- 
fy you in breaking both the laws of your God and your 
country. ’ ’ 

She flashed him a scornful glance as he finished speaking 
and said bitterly: 

“My country indeed! I have no country, sir. I have a 
place where I am permitted to exist, but a country I have 
never had. You ask me why I was so afraid for Harry to 
taste liquor. I will tell you. I supposed you would leave 
me when you found what I had done but presume you are 
used to meeting crime. Yes, I’ll tell you all about it. It 
doesn’t matter now what people think of me. I’ll be sent 
to prison, they tell me, for a long time and I’m old now 
and never expect to leave it alive. What a disgrace for 
my boys ! Mother died in prison. ’ ’ And the lines deepened 
on her face and the far away look that had momentarily 
left her eyes returned. 

“You have more than one son, then?” 

“Yes, I have two living and one dead,” she replied, 
dreamily, then adding hastily, “Oh, yes, I started to tell 
you why I tried to kill Sanders for offering Harrj’' a drink 


127 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


of rum. When my boys were all babies, the oldest only 
four years old, my husband died a drunkard’s death. He 
had long forseen his end but could not break the habit and 
often begged me to do all in my power to prevent our boys 
tasting liquor for he feared they might inherit the taste 
from him. When he finally died my baby was only two 
weeks old and the shock his suffering and awful death gave 
me caused me a long illness. It was a horrible death. I 
can see him yet. ’ ’ And she paused again with a shudder. 

“But you recovered, and did your best to teach your 
boys as their father wished,” said Mr. Rivers, wishing to 
turn her thoughts from her husband’s death. 

“Yes, I got well at last,” she resumed. “We had a little 
home here in this city— it was only a town then — but all 
the money we had saved was spent during my illness and 
when I was able to be about I found myself in debt with 
little chance of getting out without selling our home and 
this I wished to keep. I did sewing, washing or anything 
I could get to do the first year, but was barely able to make 
a living for my children. In the meantime a factory had 
started near where we lived and they hired women because 
they could get them cheaper. Yes, because I was a woman 
I was obliged to work for about half what they would have 
paid a man ; but I was glad to get the work. I could make 
more than I had been making at home, but I had to leave 
my children alone. Well, I worked at the factory over 
three months and had paid some on my debts when my 
oldest boy took the fever. He was sick nearly six weeks 
before he died. This left me with more debts and a poorer 
chance to pay them, as I could not leave the little children 
long alone. I worked at what I could get to do at home and 
managed to keep us in bread and clothes another year when 
I thought I might try the factory again. But now a new 
trial came up : I found that I must leave my home as I had 
been unable to pay the taxes and it vas going to be sold. 
It seemed to me they might have left me that. It wasn’t 
much to the government — ^your government, sir, not mine; 
but it was all I had. Well, we left it and went to a little 


128 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


hut closer the factory where I worked a few years longer. 
My boys were soon old enough to help me a little, but I was 
always uneasy when they were out of my sight. The saloon- 
keepers were worse in those days than they are now, or 
rather they were bolder. I’d known them to coax very young 
boys into their shops and get them drunk and I’d known 
many a boy to be ruined that way, and I was always afraid 
for mine, though I’d warned and cautioned many times. 
But I’m tiring you, sir, and keeping you from more de- 
serving persons, so I will pass over this period of anxiety 
on my part. My hoys both grew to young manhood with- 
out tasting liquor: I had kept them in school and they 
were fairly well educated and together we had paid all the 
debts and bought us a little home and I was beginning to 
think I might spend my old age in peace. Then the war 
with Spain began and John, my oldest boy, decided to go. 
I hated to part with him, yet was proud of him for wishing 
to go. My father had been a soldier, so I bade him a cheer- 
ful good-bye and Harry and I consoled ourselves with the 
thought that he would soon return and we planned little im- 
provements about the place by way of surprise. We heard 
from him from time to time and greatly enjoyed his letters 
until one came one day that almost drove me mad. No, he 
Avas not killed or wounded: I could have borne that; but 
he told me that most of the men and officers took a drink oc- 
casionally and that it was not looked upon there as it was at 
home and that he sometimes took a drink himself, but that I 
need not worry. He would not drink when he came home. 
He did not know how I would feel about it, poor boy, and 
only told me because he was used to telling me everything 
he did. I forgot to tell you that my boys do not know how 
their father died. I wished them to honor and respect his 
memory and I kept this from them. So they cannot under- 
stand what a dreadful thing a drink of rum seems to me. I 
couldn’t sit still in the house after I read John’s letter and 
realized the dreadful danger he was in. It would he weeks 
before a letter could reach him and in the meantime what 
might not happen ? The fearful habit might then be fixed. It 


129 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


was after supper when the letter came and Harry had gone 
to market so I started to meet him, thinking the walk would 
quiet my nerves and cool my head, which seemed ready to 
burst. I walked hastily along until I came to the main part 
of town. I was not surprised at not meeting Harry. He had 
only been gone a short time. I do not remember even look- 
ing for him, my mind was so full of the other boy so far 
away. I walked almost through the city and paused only 
when I happened to think if Harry returned before me he 
would not know where I was, so I walked toward home, go- 
ing a shorter way, and in so doing I passed Sanders’ saloon. 
I don’t know how I came to look in. I’ve always hated the 
places and usually hurried by, looking some other way. But 
that night as I passed I looked in and there, standing by the 
door, was my Harry, and with him a friend who worked with 
him at the factory. He had the market basket on his arm 
and I knew by the parcels in it he had done his trading. 
While I stood watching him, for I could neither move nor 
speak, Sanders came from behind the bar with two glasses 
of rum. Harry’s friend took one and drank it off and San- 
ders offered the other to Harry, but he refused it and turned 
to leave the place. I heard Sanders’ loud laugh and he said 
something I could not hear; but Harry paused and again 
Sanders offered him the glass. Then, sir, something in my 
head snapped. I can recall nothing clearly, but I remember 
opening the door and rushing at Sanders with all my 
strength. I remember seizing a knife from somewhere and 
of seeing Sanders lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Then 
Harry took me away and they brought me here. Sanders 
was alright in an hour or so and may go on with his hellish 
work unmolested. He can ruin and send to a drunkard’s 
grave just as many boys as he can induce to drink and no 
one says him nay; andjvowr government lets him sir, and 
profits by it — and you expect me to love a country where 
such crimes are permitted. No, I hate it; if a wretched 
woman’s curse could harm it, then I would curse it. Harry 
told me afterward that Sanders had just got on a lot of new 
liquors and was treating everybody and that Sam Brown 


130 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


wanted him to stop with him and Harry said he had about 
decided to take a drink when I entered so I saved him from 
that and I ’m glad I did it. ’ ’ 

“My poor woman,” said Paul Rivers. “I cannot deny 
that my government permits many unjust and wicked things, 
that it might in some measure prevent, and no one deplores 
the fact more than myself. Yet can we not leave the punish- 
ment of the wicked to God, who in his own time will judge 
both nation and man and mete out to each the just reward 
of their works?” 

Mrs. Meeks listened quietly until he had finished when 
she said with bitter reproach in her voice : 

“You think, then, that I and others like me when we see 
our sons and husbands or brothers it may be sisters or 
daughters ruined by drink and sent to torment, for that’s 
where they go if the Bible’s true, you think we ought to be 
reconciled and consoled because those who sent them there 
are likely to go themselves. Well, some may find comfort 
that way but I can’t. I want my boys to be good honorable 
men but they are constantly exposed to such temptations 
and I — I am here a living disgrace to them — but I’m not 
sorry; no, I’m not sorry; I only wish I’d succeeded.” And 
the woman arose from the stool and began restlessly pacing 
the cell. She seemed to have forgotten her visitor entirely 
and as Paul Rivers had already given more time to her than 
it was his wont to give to any one prisoner he left the cell, 
feeling that his visit had been in vain. If this poor woman 
had been protecting her son from a poison that would have 
destroyed only his body, her act would have been justifiable, 
but since she was protecting him from a poison that would 
destroy both body and soul she must foresooth, be im- 
prisoned and of course we are far too loyal and patriotic 
American citizens to question the justice of the act, but as 
the mother languished in jail there was a bitter sense of in- 
justice in her heart. 

The next time Paul Rivers visited the jail he was informed 
by the jailer that Mrs. Meeks had been removed to an in- 
sane asylum. 


131 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


‘ ‘ Ah, I feared as much, ’ ’ said Mr. Rivers. 

‘‘Yes, she flew at me like mad one day. Said I was San- 
ders and was tryin’ to ruin her boy. They took her away 
the next day. The boy, too, now is nearly crazy. Says it’s 
his fault an’ so on. But Paul Rivers had passed on and it is 
doubtful if he heard the jailer’s words. His thoughts were 
of Mrs. Meeks and others that like her suffered because of 
the accursed liquor traffic and his face wore a sad look, his 
usually erect form was somewhat stooped and his step was 
slow as he turned from the jail. He had felt discouraged 
and dejected for several days. Why, he could scarcely have 
told. He had been accustomed to the darker side of hu- 
manity: to witnessing suffering and listening to tales of 
grief and sin the greater part of his life yet of late they 
affected him more. He could no longer listen quietly to a 
story of sin or grief, do all in his power to comfort or re- 
lieve the afflicted soul and then dismiss the incident from his 
mind. They seemed to follow and haunt him. Even at night 
when he should have been resting some face stamped with 
sin or sorrow would arise before him and refuse to be put 
away except to make room for another. He wondered as he 
walked along if it was because of any neglect of duty on his 
part and rapidly in his mind he ran over the last twenty- 
five years of his life, but without finding anything whereof 
to accuse himself. Like the Paul of old he could say with- 
out egotism : “I have fought a good fight.” But what good 
had it done? Looking at the result of his work this morn- 
ing he felt he might just as well been standing all these 
years beating his hands against a stone wall. There seemed 
to be just as much wickedness in the world and criminals 
just as bold as though he had never existed. Forgotten for 
the time were the many whom he had helped and encouraged 
to live better lives. He also forgot, if he had ever known, 
how many keepers of dens of iniquity had learned to tremble 
at his approach and grow less bold in their hideous work, 
for Paul Rivers could be as stern and fearless as he was 
kind and gentle if occasion demanded it. Several times he 
had been warned that his very life was in danger because 


132 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


he had caused some of these last named persons to be 
punished for their crimes, but he had refused to heed them 
or to pause in his work. 

But he was thinking of none of these things as he walked 
toward his office or home, this morning. His mind was filled 
with thoughts of the sin and misery still to be found in that 
one city and what seemed to him his fruitless efforts to 
mitigate it. 

Arriving at his office he sank into a chair, threw his arms 
across his desk and rested his head wearily upon them; too 
utterly depressed and discouraged to think or pray. He re- 
mained for some moments in this Gethsemane but at last 
could bear no longer the weight of crime and suffering that 
seemed crushing him and cried out in agony to One who had 
borne the sorrows and sins of a world: “Oh, Lord, how 
long — how long wilt Thou bear with man’s iniquity and na- 
tion’s crimes? How long wilt thou withhold justice from 
men who are daily starting men and women on the road 
to destruction, from a nation that compromises with such 
crime and from thine own people who stand idly by, consent- 
ing unto it all ? Oh, God, increase our faith and our strength 
or we faint by the wayside. We know in Thine own good 
time that the wicked must cease from doing wickedness and 
the weary may rest in peace but oh. Father, speed the time 
for Thy Son’s sake and the innocent ones who are suffering 
because of the wicked of the world.” 

It was only a few words wrung brokenly from an over- 
burdened heart nor did the speaker raise his head when he 
had finished. He still felt depressed and resumed his gloomy 
thought, Why did not Christians take more interest in sav- 
ing souls? Why were they not trying to destroy evils that 
ruined so many, both men and women? And then his own 
efforts arose mockingly before him. What had he accom- 
plished to justify him in condemning others for not follow- 
ing his example ? How strong were the workers of iniquity ! 
And yet to admit that they could not be overcome would 
be to admit that they were stronger than God. 


133 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


He raised his head at last and reached for the Bible he 
always left on his desk for reference during interviews with 
penitent or grief stricken callers of whom he had many. As 
he turned its worn leaves he remembered that this was the 
third Bible he had actually worn out this way. Surely such 
work ought not to be in vain. 

Presently he paused in his idle turning of the leaves as 
his eyes rested on a passage of scripture that had once 
warned and threatened him but which now came like a 
soothing balm to his troubled soul as he slowly read it over. 
It was Ezekiel 3-17-2L 

When God had first called him to preach His word, he had 
hesitated : his prospects as a physician had been so brilliant 
and he had spent so much time preparing himself for what 
he meant to make his life work, that it cost him a struggle 
to give it up, but one night when he took up his Bible these 
same verses had caught his eye and threateningly pointed 
out to him his duty and he had hesitated no longer. He 
had done all in his power to warn the wicked and righteous. 
He had gone from place to place wherever there was a dearth 
of churches or ministers and preached the word unceasingly. 
But his work had been chiefly confined to the extremely poor 
or wicked who seldom attended church. He had gone from 
one miserable home to another, or gathered a few together in 
one place and taught them the gospel. He also found ample 
opportunity for exercising his skill as a physician and had 
performed some wonderful cures among the poor who other- 
wise must have died, being unable to pay for like treatment. 
Such skill as he possessed could not long be hid and he was 
soon sought for by the rich as well as poor, but seldom went 
except in most urgent cases and then refused to set any price 
upon his work. He wished to be known as a minister and 
missionary and not as a physician. 

Gradually the people had learned to respect his wishes 
and ceased to offer him pay for his services which they felt, 
however, could not be accepted without some return, and 
many a generous check was sent him with no clue to the 
sender with the simple statement that it was to be used in 
his work at his own discretion and many a well filled box of 

134 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

clothing and provisions came in the same way with the same 
instructions. 

Once he had found the only son of a wealthy merchant in 
a liquor house. He had been drugged, robbed and beaten 
until he was in a pitiable and dangerous condition but Paul 
Rivers had rescued him, nursed him back to health and sent 
him home a Christian man. The father’s gratitude knew no 
bounds but Paul Rivers had quietly but firmly refused all 
offers of pay, therefore the father had sought out his ad- 
dress and inquired into his work and ever after made it his 
business to contribute liberally in the manner before stated. 
If one man could perform such miracles as this, one had 
wrought in his son surely he deserved help and encourage- 
ment. And in this and like cases Paul Rivers had made his 
name and it was from such sources that he obtained most of 
the means for carrying on his great work. He had a very 
little income of his own and lived very plainly in a cheap 
but respectable section of the city and took his meals at a 
very moderate boarding house. All he received from the 
sources mentioned and every cent he could spare from his 
own small income went to relieve suffering of some sort and 
to promote the cause of Christ. 

Yes, he believed he had done all one man could do, to 
warn the wicked and to help them, and to make the road 
easier for them when they did turn and gradually all the 
cloud of depression lifted. If he had done all he could he 
was not responsible for results : he would take up his burden 
again and bear it bravely to the end leaving the result of 
his saving to God, and v^^hen he again went forth it was 
with his wonted cheerfulness, energy and patient endurance 
that had won for him the love and respect of all the better 
portion of humanity. But this same energy and patient 
perseverence had also made for him many bitter enemies 
among the wicked and unprincipled. In thought and deed 
and action if not in so many words they seemed to say to 
him : ^ ‘ Why have you come to torment us before the time ? 
Let us alone.” That has been the cry of Satan’s agents 
from the beginning. They only want to be let alone to en- 
slave and destroy mankind. 


135 


CHAPTER IX. 


“William, I^m afraid there is something really wrong with 
your wife,” said Miss Bellmont, one evening as she met her 
nephew in the hall.' “I have noticed it for some time, but 
she acts so strange this evening. I wonder you have not 
noticed it yourself. She will permit neither her maid nor 
myself to come near her and actually threw the brushes 
from the dresser at Felice when she attempted to enter the 
room. Was there ever insanity or anything of the kind in 
the family?” 

“Where is Isabelle now?” asked Bellmont, without re- 
plying to his aunt^s remarks. 

“In her room. She looks feverish and excited and I ad- 
vise you to call a physican at once,” was the reply. “She 
may be on the verge of nervous prostration or insanity. ’ ’ 

To her surprise and perplexity William mounted the stairs 
without a word and she, not caring to follow, entered the sit- 
ting room and seated herself in a rocker in a more perturbed 
state of mind than she remembered being in before. She had 
had much experience with illness of various kinds, for, 
though having had no family of her own, she had been 
the nurse and counselor of the whole neighborhood, and 
was never more at home than in the sick-room, where her 
firmness and promptness, as well as her patience and com- 
mon sense, were appreciated by patient and physician alike. 
But Isabelle’s case she felt was quite beyond her. She 
had never seen anything like it, and though she and Isa- 
belle had few thoughts and tastes in common, Miss Bell- 
mont seldom felt aught but pity for the weaker woman. 
She had insisted upon consulting Isabelle about the house- 
hold management, asking her advice about dealing with 
this servant or that one, more with a view to keeping her 

136 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


interested in her house and servants than from a hope of 
gaining information; for Isabelle knew nothing of manage- 
ment and cared less. She would permit her servants to do 
entirely as they pleased for a time, then in a sudden fit 
of reformation she would forbid all privileges previously 
granted and discharge many of them indiscriminately and 
secure new ones. This mode of proceedure could only 
prove demoralizing to both mistress and servant, and Miss 
Bellmont had found many difficult problems to solve when 
she took the reins in her own hands. But she had brought 
order out of it all, and the few remaining servants had 
learned to respect her. They found in her a mistress kind, but 
firm, and they seldom ventured to question her wisdom or 
disobey her orders, and she was just beginning to think her 
worst trials ended when this new problem presented itself 
and, looking at it as she might, it wore an air of mystery that 
was provoking to her. William, she now felt certain, had 
known of it for some time. Then why had he not informed 
her? Did he think his wife was going mad and wish to 
keep it from her? She could think of no other possible 
solution of the problem, and yet she believed if this were 
true William would have told her. 

Presently she heard his step as he slowly descended 
the stairway. He entered the room and sank wearily into 
a chair without speaking. Miss Bellmont noted the troubled 
look on his face and said: 

‘‘Is your wife very ill, William? Why do you not call 
a physician? Is there anything I can do?” 

“Isabelle is sleeping; she is not ill; therefore needs no 
physician, and there is nothing you can do at present,” he 
replied, slowly, after a moment’s thought. “You will have 
to know, aunt ; it is right you should, and I have been want- 
ing to tell you for some time, but dreaded to do so, and 
scarcely know how without shocking you; but the simple 
fact is, Isabelle has long been addicted to the use of wine, 
and of late takes more than she ought. I have only known 
it a short time, and am at a loss how to act. ’ ’ 

137 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


Miss Bellmont looked at her nephew a moment in silent 
amazement, scarcely comprehending his meaning; then she 
exclaimed : 

“William! You don't mean to tell me that your wife 
is drunk!" 

William smiled bitterly as he said : 

“You will never learn discrimination, aunt. In ordinary 
cases I presume that would be the proper word, but Isabelle 
would be shocked beyond recovery to hear it applied to 
herself. She has simply taken a glass or two of wine more 
than usual, and is consequently not quite herself. That is all 
I can learn at present. I have spoken to Felice at different 
times since I found Isabelle would brook no interference on 
my part, but she says her mistress will have it, and is like 
one distracted until she gets all she wants; that she uses 
more and more every week, and is becoming more unreason- 
able accordingly. This I can see for myself, but as I said, am 
at a loss how to act." 

Miss Bellmont rocked a moment in silence, then asked: 

“Why did you ever consent to her using it? There are 
other remedies as good that are not harmful." 

“Why did I permit it? Well, the M. D. who prescribed 
it had absorbed the inside of some half-dozen colleges, med- 
ical and otherwise, and tacked a tail to his name as long 
as from here to Jericho. You can readily see what gross 
egotism it would have been for me to have questioned his 
wisdom; besides, in this case I doubt if it would have 
prevented the present outcome. Isabelle always loved wine, 
and as a child it was constantly before her, and she was 
early given a glass or two daily by her father for some 
fancied ailment. Wine was his cure-all, and Isabelle learned 
to look upon all this agitation against its use as merely 
the talk of would-be reformers anxious for notoriety." 

“But what will you do, William? Surely you do not mean 
for her to continue its use. It will ruin her health entirely ; 
besides what an unpleasant life it will be. Felice is talking 
of leaving now," said Miss Bellmont. 


138 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Do? What can one do? I have tried, as I said, to 
induce her to discontinue its use now that her health is 
improved, but she frankly admits that she likes it and 
cannot do without it, but at the same time either cannot 
or will not see the harm it is doing her.” 

“Are there not places where such cases are treated? Why 
not take her to one of them?” said Miss Bellmont. 

“She would not go,” said William; “and it would do her 
no good, since she will not give up the use of wine. It 
and other beverages, such as claret, champagne and the 
like, are used at most social functions, and Isabelle would 
not make herself conspicuous by refusing them even if she 
could be made to see the harm in them.” 

“Well, it seems to me if the physician knew she was 
already drinking such things daily it was very unwise for 
him to prescribe more,” said his aunt. 

“Maybe he didn’t know it. I didn’t until a short time 
ago. Who would have dreamed of such a result as this? 
But I find that her case is by no means the first of the kind. 
It is no uncommon thing for women to become drunkards, 
and many such cases can be found in so-called best society. ’ ’ 

“If she could be induced to take some interest in some- 
thing to occupy her time and mind,” resumed Miss Bell- 
mont, meditatively. 

“Suppose you try?” said William. “I have failed, but you 
might succeed.” 

“I fear it will be a difficult case,” said his aunt, reflect- 
ively. 

“I’m sure of it,” said William, who was not a little 
relieved to share his burden with his practical, matter-of- 
fact aunt. “Felice tells me my wife is never without wine 
now. It is the first thing in the morning and the last at 
night. I will help you in any way you suggest, but I fear 
you will find a more difficult case than you ever met in 
Ragged Row.” 

“Well, I will think,” said his aunt. “I confess it has 
taken me so by surprise I hardly know how to begin. But 


139 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


I believe the only hope lies in interesting her in something 
and inducing her to give it up gradually. In the mean- 
time I think a real nerve food or tonic could be used to 
advantage. ’ ’ 

“We will see, but I doubt if she will take it,” replied 
William. 

“And another thing, my boy, your wife is not to blame 
for this ; she is simply the victim, first, of an unwise father, 
and second, of a thoughtless physician. I notice you fre- 
quently reply to her speeches with impatience or ridicule. 
You should not do so. Her case requires the utmost 
patience, and if once you gain her ill-will you can do noth- 
ing with her.” 

“I promised to follow instructions. I shall do so, and 
now I will leave you to plan operations while I consult 
a physician,” replied William. 

Miss Bellmont thought and planned the remainder of thft 
day and far into the night, but without arriving at any 
very definite conclusion. She would have preferred a dozen 
such cases in Ragged Row to this one, for there she could 
instruct her patients in the evils and dangers of alcoholic 
drinks, provide for their needs and comforts, and give a kind, 
little lecture if she deemed it necessary. But she realized 
that in Isabelle’s case none of these modes of procedure 
would apply. Still, next morning after breakfast she en- 
tered Isabelle’s room dressed for a walk. Isabelle had 
not been down to breakfast and Miss Bellmont expected to 
find her in bed. She was much surprised to find her up 
and preparing to go out, but said composedly : 

“As you were not down to breakfast, Isabelle, I brought 
you a glass of milk. I trust you are better this morning. ’ ’ 

“Better? I have not been ill,” said Isabelle. “I was 
probably a little nervous last evening. I do not remember 
clearly. Felice vexes me so at times.” 

“Well, you will drink this milk at least, will you not? 
It is fresh, and I cooled it purposely for you, ’ ’ persi^ed Miss 
Bellmont. 


140 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“No, thank you, aunt. I don’t care for it. I seldom 
breakfast lately, you know. I feel better with just a glass 
of wine, and I have taken that.” 

“But, Isabelle, you have tried wine so long: do you 
really think it does you good? I wish you would at least 
try my remedies a few weeks instead. Milk, you know, is 
nourishing as well as stimulating.” 

Isabelle smiled in a superior way. ‘ ‘ Milk, I believe, is used 
mostly for babies or invalids, and I am neither. I don’t 
see what is coming over every one. William now has but 
just gone. He brought some sort of medicine for my nerves, 
and was quite put out when I refused to take it. One never 
gets done taking medicine once one begins, and I do not 
mean to begin. It sometimes makes one really ill if they are 
not so. I have heard very wise persons say as much.” 

Miss Bellmont was at a loss how to proceed, but resolved 
to be more diplomatic. So seating herself in front of a 
picture Isabelle had begun, but never finished, she said : 

“You do look well, Isabelle. Women, I believe, do not 
age as rapidly as they did a few years ago, and I quite 
agree with you about indiscriminate medicine taking. Still 
one may be on the verge of nervous prostration without 
knowing it, and you admit you are a little nervous. I would 
take the medicine if I were you; your husband is naturally 
anxious for you to keep your health and beauty, and noth- 
ing is so dangerous to either as nervousness. I have been 
examining this picture here. I wish you would take time 
to finish it. The landscape is good, the water and sky nat- 
ural and those cows look so happy. I would like to give it 
to a family of children I know.” 

“Do your people really care for pictures, aunt?” asked 
Isabelle. 

“Indeed they do. They cut every picture from any news- 
papers that they can procure and paste them on the wall,” 
replied Miss Bellmont. 

“You may have the picture, then. It is almost done, and 
I will finish it tomorrow,” said Isabelle. 

Emboldened by this small victory. Miss Bellmont con- 
tinued : 


141 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“And there was one other favor I wished to ask. I hoped 
you would find it convenient to go with me today to visit 
my people, as you call them. William says you used to 
visit the slums in New York, and as this is my first expe- 
rience in such work, I thought you might be able to 
help me.’’ 

But Isabelle’s reply was emphatic. 

“No, aunt, I cannot do that. It gives me the horrors yet 
to recall all the risks I ran — the exposure to contagious 
disease, besides all the discomfort, and what thanks does 
one receive? None whatever. Better leave such people to 
themselves to live their own lives. That’s my advice. They 
don’t thank you for your trouble, and you’ll be sure to catch 
something. ’ ’ 

From this decision Isabelle could not be moved, and Miss 
Bellmont left the room feeling that she had made but little 
progress toward the solution of the problem. 

But that very day William received a letter from an old 
college friend, Reginald De Forrest, of Georgia, saying 
that he would be in the city on business a few weeks and 
would pay him a long promised visit, and Isabelle was at 
once aroused and interested. 

“The De Forrests, you see, are descended from a very 
proud and ancient French family,” she explained to Miss 
Bellmont, “and this Reginald is very wealthy, and from 
what William has told me of him I judge he has inherited 
all the family pride. His mother is still living, and since 
he has never married, they live together at their family 
home, ‘The Magnolias.’ We must plan something extra in 
the way of entertainments while he is here.” 

“ I do not think, my dear, you need exert yourself on that 
score. Reginald, if I mistake not, is a sort of a recluse, 
and cares but little for society. True, I have not seen him 
these eight years, but we have kept up a fitful correspond- 
ence, and some way his letters have given me that impres- 
sion. I further surmise that his chief ‘business’ here is to 
pay his respects to a certain little Italian lady who is not 
strictly in society.” 


142 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Whom, pray?” asked Isabelle in surprise. “Surely he, 
a De Forrest, would not be guilty of a mesalliance.” 

“Well, that depends on what you call a mesalliance,” 
replied William. 

“The lady in question is a lady of the first water. Reg- 
inald became acquainted with her when she was traveling 
in the South with her father four years ago. He wrote 
me about it at the time, and I guessed he was much taken 
with her. Her father died the next year, leaving nothing 
for the support of his family, consisting of a wife and a 
lame boy of about ten, and Inez. They have lived here 
since Mr. Montague’s death, and Inez supports them by 
teaching music. I may be mistaken, of course, but I believe 
his visit will end in a wedding. I would not plan any 
elaborate entertainments if I were you until he arrives, for 
if my surmises are correct, a quiet dinner, or something of 
the sort, with a few musicales, will be more suitable.” 

Isabelle decided to abide by his judgment, and was glad 
she had done so when the guest arrived. He was a man 
of medium height and weight, with blue eyes and light 
hair, which he had inherited from his Northern mother. 
His father, who had been dead some time, had been a typical 
Southerner, descended, as Isabelle has already stated, from 
an old French family. He had been passionate and impul- 
sive, and Reginald had inherited his father’s disposition. 

He arrived on Tuesday, and begged Isabelle to permit 
him to enjoy his visit in perfect quiet, and when she had 
suggested at least one ball and reception and a few picnics, 
he said: 

“You will honor and please me most, Mrs. Bellmont, by 
permitting me to spend my time with yourselves exclusive 
of visitors. We had a surfeit of Vanity Fair, William and 
I, when we were young men, and I myself have been out 
of society so long I should disgrace you.” 

So it was settled, and the following Sunday morning 
William took his friend with him for his customary stroll 
that of late usually ended at the little church where Paul 
Rivers occasionally preached. 

143 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“I always dodge the aristocracy on Sundays/^ said Wil- 
liam, as they walked along. “But we are fortunate this 
morning, for I learned yesterday that one Paul Rivers is 
to preach at a small church across town, and we are cer- 
tain of something to keep us awake.” 

And they were not disappointed. The text was: “What- 
soever thou dost, do it for the honor and glory of God.” 
And then there followed a sermon on Christian duty so 
convincing and powerful that Reginald at least was won- 
derfully impressed by it. 

“An unusually ^ood sermon,” he commented, as they 
walked along. 

“It was certainly a striking one,” replied William, dryly. 
It had hit him too squarely in the face to be altogether en- 
joyable. 

“But do you know now, Bellmont,” continued Reginald, 
“if I were a Christian, I should feel it my duty to do all 
those things. I should look at it this way: Whatever 
hinders the cause of Christ is an enemy to it, and all such 
enemies should be mine. It is the half-hearted Christians 
that do little or nothing that hinder the cause, and not the 
enemies to it. There are Christians, or rather church mem- 
bers, that you couldn’t distinguish from common sinners to 
save your life.” 

Reginald had talked on, looking at the various buildings, 
private and public, and seemed not to expect an answer, 
when he paused. 

William flushed outwardly and smiled inwardly as he 
remembered that Reginald did not know he was a church 
member. Reginald had gone to Europe shortly after they 
left college, and William had not mentioned it in his letters. 

“They do most anything anybody else will,” continued 
Reginald. “Chew, smoke, bet, play cards, drink and cheat 
their neighbors in a horse trade.” 

“Come, now, Reginald, don’t you think you are a little 
hard on the church folk?” asked William. “Why don’t 
you praise the good ones instead of pouring out your wrath 
upon the wobbley ones?” 


144 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Because, not being a Christian myself, I find pleasure 
in comparing myself with those who are, and in my own 
estimation at least I seldom come off second best,” replied 
Reginald, smiling. “It is much easier to say what others 
should do than it is to do the doing one’s self.” 

“But what is it the apostle says about people compar- 
ing themselves by themselves not being wise?” asked 
William. 

“Don’t know, I’m sure, and now, Bellmont, don’t turn 
preacher; one sermon a day is quite enough for respecta- 
bility. One might think you a churchman yourself the way 
you take a fellow up,” replied Reginald. 

“Well, since you’ve mentioned it, I believe one of our 
fashionable institutions up town does claim me as a mem- 
ber, though I so seldom attend I wonder they do not mark 
me off entirely.” 

“Why, I had no idea you were a Christian,” said Regi- 
nald in surprise. 

“I dare say you didn’t,” replied William, dryly, “and 
to tell the truth, I have often had serious doubts on the 
subject myself; but that, according to our learned pastor, 
is a matter of little consequence. If he can only get your 
name on his church book you are safe. Out of reach of the 
devil and the other denominations, you understand? You 
need not deny yourself worldly pleasures either. Chris- 
tians nowadays are not expected to be martyrs, and in 
short, Reginald, old boy, I’m surprised that you do not 
embrace so glorious a religion and so insure your soul’s 
salvation. ’ ’ 

Reginald looked puzzled and surprised. William’s voice 
and look had been half comic and half sarcastic. 

“Of course. Will, I don’t pretend to understand more than 
half you have said or mean; but I do know you were not 
always so pessimistic concerning these things. You used to 
have very high ideals of duty, I remember, and have kept 
me out of many a scrape. Does the possession of Chris- 
tianity lessen its attractiveness for the possessor? I believe 
I have heard it said that worldy things lose their value as 


145 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


soon as possessed, but I did not know the same law applied 
to Christianity.’^ 

''1 had not thought of it in that light,” replied William. 
“But perhaps that is truer than we think. We become so 
thoroughly disgusted with ourselves because we cannot 
be the models we hoped to be that perhaps we unconsciously 
blame Christianity for it. True, I once had very exalted 
ideas of life, my duty and so on. But theory and practice, 
I soon learned, are two very different things, and my good 
resolutions were soon scattered to the four winds. Since 
then I have been little more than a bit of drift-wood buf- 
feted by wind and wave. But come, Reginald, I shall con- 
fess no more of my iniquities today. How are you and the 
little Italian coming on? I expected wedding cards ere 
this. ’ ’ 

Reginald changed color and hesitated a moment, then 
said : 

“And you should have had them could I have had my 
way, but Inez, for some unaccountable reason, insists she 
will never marry. I thought at first it was only shyness, 
since she had admitted she really cared for me; but yester- 
day she seemed so distressed and begged me not to try to 
see her again, saying it would be much better for us both, 
that I hardly know what to think; but I shall not give her 
up yet. Of course, she is at present her mother’s and 
brother’s only support; but I have explained to her that I 
should consider it my privilege to amply provide for them. 
But ‘faint heart ne’er won fair lady,’ you know, and I feel 
that I shall win in the end.” 

“Sounds like a romance,” said William, “and I wish 
you luck, I’m sure. Perhaps now, if you’ll hang a horse- 
shoe over your door, carry a four-leaf clover in youT pocket, 
and turn around three times before getting in bed to-night, 
she will say ‘yes’ tomorrow.” 

Whether Reginald tried all these projects or not we 
cannot say, but he came in the next evening looking so 
radiant that William exclaimed : 

“The charms worked, did they?” 


146 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Hang yoiir charms. But what of all things do you sup- 
pose my little Inez was fretting herself about?” 

“Waiting to see if some more desirable suitor would not 
declare himself,” said William, thinking his friend’s ardor 
needed cooling. 

“No, nothing of the sort,” replied Reginald, shortly. 

“Well, what was it, then? I’m not next all the feminine 
devices for keeping a fellow in hot water, and should not 
guess in a year,” said William. 

“I’ve a mind not to tell you, since you’re such a bear, 
but suppose I can afford to be generous today. It was 
simply that her father had been a drunkard, that he had 
inherited the taste from his father and a long line of ances- 
tors who seem to have had a penchant for the cup, and Inez 
fears she herself has inherited the taste. Now could any- 
thing be more absurd? She was actually afraid that she 
would some time become a drunkard, or if she should have 
children, they might be drunkards. I’ll tell you, it took all 
my persuasive powers to overcome her prejudice on the 
subject. But she yielded at last, and for fear she should 
change her mind I insisted upon an early wedding. We 
are to be married in a fortnight, and you will receive a 
wedding card forthwith. Why don’t you congraulate 
me?” 

William had become strangely silent and sober, but said 
after an awkward pause : 

“I hardly know whether to do so or not. Do you think 
you have acted wisely? What if Miss Montague’s fears 
should be realized? It would kill your mother and wreck 
your life. It seems to me, Reginald, you would better 
have considered well before persuading Miss Montague into 
this engagement against her better judgment. Think of 
your family pride.” 

“I trust, William, you are not such a dolt as to think 
there is really any danger,” said Reginald, impatiently. 
“I gave you credit for more sense. The idea of any one 
as delicately beautiful and refined as Inez ever becoming a 
common drunkard is preposterous. Of course, I should 


147 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


have preferred that her father had not been a drunkard, 
but my family pride, as you call it, is not of the sort that 
visits the parent’s sins upon the child, and I love Inez none 
the less for it. As for my mother, she is anxious to see 
me married, and we have long understood each other on 
the subject. Her only request is that I should marry a 
lady, and Inez is that. My mother does not know of my 
present intentions, however, and as her health will not 
admit of her coming north at this time of the year, I shall 
not inform her of them, but surprise and please her shortly 
by presenting her with a daughter of which any mother 
might be proud. And now, old fellow, it only remains for 
you to lay aside that gloomy mask and deport yourself as 
I have a right to expect my best friend to do, under the 
circumstances, to make my happiness complete.” 

“You are determined, then? Nothing can change your in- 
tentions?” asked William. 

“Certainly not,” replied Reginald, decidedly. “It is too 
late now, even if I wished to do so, which I do not. I shall 
marry Inez in two weeks, either with your consent or with- 
out.” 

William smiled. 

“Of course you think it’s none of my business, and I pre- 
sume you are old enough to be your own judge. Yet dis- 
cretion does not always come with age. But I will cease 
my croaking and wish you all happiness,” and William ex- 
tended his hand, which Reginald shook heartily. 

The two weeks passed rapidly, and the wedding day 
dawned clear and bright. Neither of the friends had again 
referred to what Reginald insisted upon thinking Inez’s 
groundless fears, and as Bellmont saw more of her himself 
his own fears gradually left him. Isabelle had insisted upon 
a dinner party and the musicales, and Bellmont had studied 
his friend ’s fiancee closely on these occasions, but was forced 
to agree with Reginald that it was preposterous to 
imagine so beautiful and intelligent a creature a common 
drunkard. It was to be a very quiet wedding by Inez’s 
and her mother’s request, only the Bellmonts and two or 


148 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


three of the bride’s most intimate friends being invited; 
but Reginald had insisted upon a white satin gown for his 
bride and a sumptuous wedding breakfast. 

Reginald and the Bellmonts were the first to arrive, and 
they found Inez dressed and waiting in an upper room of 
the little cottage. The other guests soon arrived, and the 
words were spoken that bound Reginald and Inez together 
for life. He had solemnly promised to love, cherish and 
protect her, while she had promised to love and honor him. 
Alas, how lightly such vows are taken ! How thoughtlessly 
broken ! 

Reginald De Forrest broke one of his promises on the 
way to the breakfast room. 

“Reginald,” Inez had whispered, as they passed out to- 
gether, “the man from whom you ordered the breakfast 
has sent up wine. I meant never to taste it, but if I do not, 
it will be remarked upon. What shall I do ? ” 

“Drink it, of course,” he replied, gaily. “It certainly 
would look odd for you to refuse to drink to the health 
and happiness of the bride and groom.” 

Why did he not remember his promise to protect and 
cherish her, and bid her not to drink it if she feared to 
do so? In so doing he would have been protecting her 
against her own weakness, which is really one’s greatest 
enemy. 

But Reginald was not thinking of his marriage vows, nor 
yet of Inez’s supposed weakness. He had put that out of 
his mind forever, he told himself; it was only a childish 
fancy, though he respected her for having told him of it. 
She would drink her wine as did the others and think no 
more about it. To advise her not to do so would be equal 
to admitting the possibility of her avowed weakness, and 
this he would never do. 

William watched her as closely as possible without 
attracting attention. He thought she looked very pale when 
the toasts were mentioned, and there was a vague, unde- 
finable look in the beautiful dark eyes as though she feared 
something, yet scarcely knew what. She glanced question- 


149 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


ingly at Reginald, who gave her a smiling nod as he raised 
his own glass to his lips. She followed his example, sip- 
ping timidly at first and then drinking the entire glass. 
As they arose from the table, Reginald said: 

“And now, Mrs. De Forrest, just one hour until train 
time — a half-hour to dress and the other half to drive to 
the train. Think you will be ready ? I will wait for you in 
the parlor.’’ 

Inez ’ mother left the dining-room with her, and her 
friends followed them. Isabelle and Miss Bellmont remained 
in the dining-room admiring an old Italian painting which 
the latter was trying to persuade Isabelle to copy. So 
William and Reginald were alone. 

“And now, old boy, I can’t begin to tell you how happy 
I am,” began Reginald. “And I mean that this shall be 
the beginning of a new life for me indeed. I mean to be 
a thorough Christian man first; after that I shall do my 
duty morally, socially and politically as fast as I can learn 
what it is.” 

“I wish you success, I’m sure,” replied William. “I’ve 
been but a poor stick myself, but I believe you could do 
something. ’ ’ 

“I shall try at least,” replied Reginald. “I believe our 
country’s safety lies in wresting from unprincipled poli- 
ticians the tremendous power they have gained and then 
keeping our government in the hands of honest men who 
will think of something besides their own gain. Our pol- 
itics of to-day are a disgrace to us, and I mean to try what 
one man can do to better them, and I strongly advise you 
to bestir yourself in like manner. We have little else to 
do, and if we and others like us would devote our time to 
solving a few of the problems that confront us as a nation 
we might do much toward improvement, whereas if we do 
nothing but drift and idle, our government will soon be at 
the mercy of any scheming person or persons who may 
wish to use it for their own interests. I grant you will 
find much at first to disgust you, but I believe, by judicious 
management, one can get through a campaign or so without 

150 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


losing his self-respect/’ and he smiled, for he knew his 
friend entertained serious doubts on the subject. “He can 
gradually train public opinion as he goes until it will expect 
and demand thoroughly honest statesmen as leaders instead 
of the political boss of today. But I am lecturing at great 
length, and we should be started in five minutes. I wonder 
what is keeping Inez. She is bidding her mother and brother 
good-bye, I suppose. Poor child, she dreads leaving them. 
I wished them to go with us; there is room enough at the 
Magnolias for a dozen families, and mother would have had 
it so, but Mrs. Montague preferred staying here, so I bought 
this little nest for her and settled a comfortable income 
upon her — ” 

He was interrupted by Mrs. Montague coming hastily into 
the room. She was very pale, and Reginald thinking her 
agitation due to the parting from her daughter, said: 

“What is it, Mrs. Montague? Is Inez ready? I shall 
bring her back often, and you and brother Jean shall visit 
us at the Magnolias. My mother will be pleased to have 
you as long as you care to stay, and we will all be so 
happy. I — ” 

“Hush! Mr. De Forrest, do hush!” said the agitated 
mother, placing a hand on the chair for support, for she 
seemed unable to stand. 

“Inez cannot go today. She is — ill.” 

“111! Inez ill!” cried Reginald in alarm. “What can 
ail her? Shall I call a physician?” 

“Stay; she needs no physician at present. Come with 
me a moment,” said Mrs. Montague, and he followed her 
from the room. 

“Oh, Reginald, how can I tell you?” said Mrs. Montague. 
“Why did you insist upon Inez taking wine at breakfast? 
AVhile I was out of the room she sent for more and is now 
unable to leave her bed. Oh, my poor child!” and the 
mother buried her face in her hands. 

Reginald stood dumb and motionless for some moments 
but dimly realizing the awful significance of the speaker’s 
words. Finally he spoke, but his voice sounded hollow 
and far away. 


151 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Will you tell me just what you mean, mother?’’ he 
asked, giving her the name for the first time. 

“Oh, can you not guess? Inez, as she told you before, 
inherited the taste from her father; the glass of wine at 
breakfast aroused it and she insisted upon having more. 
I was not in the room at the time, and one of the girls 
brought it to her. I deceived them in thinking she is ill 
and sent them away, and Inez is now alone, but she is 
unconscious. ’ ’ 

“I will go to her anyway. Perhaps she will know me, 
and, mother, do not weep; all may yet be well. Inez will 
survive this, then I will guard her carefully in the future.” 

Thus he spoke, endeavoring to soothe the distracted 
mother; but his own heart felt like lead as he mounted the 
stairway followed by Mrs. Montague. 

It would be impossible to describe the wretched young 
man’s feelings as he gazed upon his beautful bride. Pity, 
remorse, anger and wounded pride all surged through his 
heart so rapidly that it was impossible to say which was 
predominant. 

She was lying on a low couch still in her wedding gar- 
ments. She was only half conscious, and babbled some un- 
intelligible words when he spoke to her, and he turned 
away sick at heart. Youth is ever hopeful, however, and 
as he thought the matter over he resolved to put on a 
brave face for the mother’s sake at least. Inez was not 
to blame, he argued. She had told him of this, and asked 
him to leave her, but he had refused to do so. Then in 
the face of this he had ordered wine and requested her to 
drink it. So it was his own fault entirely. He would bear 
with her through this — this — he could find no word to suit 
him — then he would protect her from herself ever after. 
Turning again to Mrs. Montague, he said : 

“It is true. I alone am to blame for this, and I wish 
to do all I can to make atonement. What can I do? Can 
not something be done to arouse her from this — unconscious- 
ness ? ’ ’ 

Mrs. Montague gave him a grateful look. She had feared 

152 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


her daughter’s condition might so shock the proud young 
man that he would turn from her in disgust. 

“There is nothing you can do,” she said. “You had 
best leave her with me; she may sleep this off tonight and 
be able to go in the morning,” and Reginald descended to 
the parlor. 

William had guessed the cause of the bride’s illness, but 
only said as Reginald entered: 

“I informed the ladies of Mrs. De Forrest’s illness and 
sent them home with the carriage, but have remained myself 
to render any aid you may need.” He was moved to pity 
by the white, wan face of his friend, but wisely refrained 
from commenting upon it. 

“There is nothing to do, it seems. Of course, you know 
or guess the cause of her illness. I feel as if every one 
knew, though Mrs. Montague assures me they do not. It 
is my own fault. She took the wine to please me and is 
not to blame. I shall use more sense another time, and 
guard her against this weakness instead of thrusting her 
into danger, as I did today. No, she is not to blame; it 
is my own fault,” he repeated, as though he would impress 
this fact firmly upon his own mind. 

“The fact that she took the wine because you asked her 
to do so, and not because she wanted it, is encouraging,” 
said William, thinking of Isabelle’s case. “If she can let 
it alone of herself she will be in little danger hereafter.” 

“Perhaps not,” replied Reginald. 

“Will you go home with me or remain here?” asked 
William, doubtfully. 

“My place is here, I believe,” was the reply, and as Reg- 
inald did not seem inclined to talk or to desire company, 
William soon took his leave, saying he would drop in occa- 
sionally to inquire after them. To his wife’s and aunt’s 
inquiries he replied that Mrs. De Forrest was resting and 
would probably be able to make the start for her southern 
home on the morrow. 

But she was not, and when William called next morning 


153 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


he was alarmed at his friend’s haggard face. He seemed 
to have aged ten years in that one day and night. 

“Bellmont, old boy, I can’t stand this much longer. It 
will kill me or drive me mad,” said he. 

“Is she no better, then?” asked William. 

“No, she is worse. She is almost raving when we refuse 
her the wine, and lies in a sort of stupor when she has it.” 

“Perhaps if you could get her away, change of scene 
would arouse her, and once in her new home she might for- 
get,” suggested William, desperately. 

“Take a drunken wife to my mother? Never!” said 
Reginald. “As you said, it would kill her. I wrote her 
today of my marriage, saying simply that my wife was 
ill and that we would come home as soon as she was able 
to travel; but I will never burden my mother with my 
blunders. ’ ’ 

William was at a loss how to assist or console his friend. 
Once he thought of explaining the facts to his aunt, but he 
remembered her helplessness and seeming failure with Isa- 
belle; besides, this was not his own trouble, and he hes- 
itated to betray another’s secret. 

“Is there nothing I can do at all?” he asked. “I feel 
like a poor friend, Reginald, to be doing nothing while 
you are in such trouble.” 

‘ ‘ There is nothing you can do, ’ ’ Reginald replied, wearily. 
“Only do all you can to keep this quiet. I don’t want 
my mother to learn it from the newspapers.” 

So three days passed, and it was the fifth day after the 
wedding when William was summoned by telephone to Mrs. 
Montague’s. That lady met him in the hall in a state of 
suppressed excitem*ent and fear. 

“I called you because you are Reginald’s friend and 
already aware of our misfortune. The door to Inez’ room 
is locked on the inside, and I can neither open it or arouse 
any one.” 

“Is Reginald in the room?” asked William. 

“He was when I left it. He has acted so strangely the 
last two days and nights, and last night Inez was worse 


154 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


than ever. I stayed with her all night and he paced the 
hall outside the door. I do not think he has slept at all the 
last three days and nights. This afternoon he came in and 
insisted upon staying with Inez while I rested. He seemed 
more cheerful than usual, and I left them and went to 
my room. I must have slept an hour or so, when I awoke 
with a start. I am not sure that I heard a sound. I thought 
I did, but when I went to Inez’ room I could get no response 
from within, and I called you at once. I would have called 
a policeman, but he is so sensitive. Do you think it pos- 
sible he has been drinking? Persons are sometimes driven 
to it by grief.” 

William scarcely knew what he thought; he had not 
supposed Reginald one to drown trouble in drink. 

“The door must be opened at once,” he said. 

“So I thought,” said Mrs. Montague, as she led the way. 
“You will have to force it,” she added, pausing before the 
closed door. 

William applied his ear to the keyhole and listened a 
moment in silence. But there came no sound, not even of 
heavy breathing. He turned very pale, and, looking at 
Mrs. Montague, he said: 

“Will you not go to your room, madam, while I open 
the door?” 

“Oh, what do you think?” she exclaimed, her eyes wide 
with a vague dread. 

“I do not know what to think,” he replied, speaking 
calmly with an effort; “but it is very quiet within.” 

“Be quick then and open the door. I can bear anything 
but this awful suspense. I shall remain here,” she replied. 
And seeing she would not go, William applied his shoulder 
to the door and wrenched it from its fastenings. 

One glance confirmed his worst fears, and he tried to 
think how to soften the blow for the mother. 

“Are you strong? Can you bear it? It is the very worst 
I fear.” 

“Oh, I can bear anything. Let me go in at once,” was 

155 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


the reply, and William stepped aside and allowed her to 
enter. 

She rushed to the couch where Inez lay, spots of blood 
showing on her white dress, and a few drops still trick- 
ling down and dropping into a small pool on the floor. Mrs. 
Montague seized the hand that was still warm and felt for 
the pulse. 

“Oh! She’s dead. She’s dead,” and the grief -stricken 
mother fell upon her knees by the couch. 

William turned his attention to Reginald. He was lying 
across the bed, where he had evidently fallen. There was 
a wound just above the right ear, and a revolver in his right 
hand with two empty shells told the story. 

“He is dead also,” said William. 

‘ ‘ Oh, my poor child, what a fearful ending to what prom- 
ised to be such a happy life ! Why could he not have left 
her as she requested him to do? We were happy and 
living comfortably. What right had he to rob me of my 
child thus?” sobbed she. 

“My dear madam, it was a most horrible deed for a 
man to do. That no one can deny, and I cannot believe 
Reginald De Forrest would have been guilty of so great a 
crime had he been in possession of his faculties. I believe 
he was crazed with grief and disappointment. His was a 
proud nature, and you and I cannot understand how he 
suffered from this blow. To be sure, it was his own fault, 
and he realized it at first. I knew he felt the blow as few 
persons could, but believe me, madam, had I had the re- 
motest idea of such an ending as this I should not have left 
him a moment.” 

“I would not judge the dead,” replied Mrs. Montague, 
more calmly ; ‘ ‘ but it seems cruel and unjust to me that my 
child should be stricken down in the very bloom of her life 
by the hand that above all others should have been her 
protection.” 

“We must call a physician and notify the authorities,” 
«aid William, not wishing to argue; “and, Mrs. Montague, 
it will do no good to have your daughter’s unfortunate 


156 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


weakness known. The verdict, of course, will be murder 
and suicide committed by Reginald, but if we are silent the 
cause will doubtless be ascribed to despondency over his 
bride’s illness.” 

William was trying to proceed as he thought his friend 
would have wished and che mother did not oppose him ; and 
so the dreadful facts with this one exception were public 
property. The awful news was flashed over the wires to 
the mother who was anxiously awaiting the arrival of her 
son and his bride, and the news boys were crying it in the 
streets. 

An answer came during the day from Reginald’s mother 
requesting his remains to be sent to her and Mrs. Montague 
wished Inez ’ grave to be near her. So they were buried, one 
beneath the frozen, snow-clad earth of a northern state and 
the other in sunny Georgia, where the birds still sang and 
the flowers were still blooming. William accompanied his 
friend’s remains to their last resting place and at the 
mother’s earnest request told her the whole pitiful story. 
He remained with her two days. On his return he found 
that the occurrence was already forgotten. Inez’ pupils 
had a new music teacher and Fourth Street church another 
organist. 

How little one is missed, after all, he thought. One dies 
or is killed; his life, manner of death and funeral arrange- 
ments are written up, and gossiped about; if he has a fam* 
ily skeleton, all the better; it will serve to keep him in 
remembrance a few days longer. Then he is forgottem 
“Verily man fleeth as a shadow and continueth not.” 

But there were two persons at least who did not for- 
get Inez so readily: her mother and lame brother mourned 
for her many days and grieved bitterly over the manner of 
her death. And in a southern mansion a lonely widow 
mourns her only child. 

“Oh, my boy! My boy! Could my poor life have saved 
you from this, how gladly I would have given it. Or if 
your death had been such that I might hope to meet you 
soon. But, oh God, I fear we are parted forever.” 

157 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


But what matters it if hearts do break; if lives are 
blighted and ruined ; if souls are doomed forever ? Because 
it has long been the custom to use wine or other like 
drinks at table we must continue to do so just as the Chi- 
nese bind their feet or the Indian disfigures and tortures 
himself; slaves, all of us alike, to that all-powerful ruler, 
custom, and we will not deviate therefrom though our re- 
fusal to do so may lure our most beloved friends to ruin. 

Reginald’s mother had always served wine at dinner; 
secure in her own son’s safety from its evil results she 
little thought that he, following her example, might ac- 
complish his ruin through the weakness of another. 

William after much thought decided to inform Isabelle 
of the real cause of the tragedy. She had not indulged to 
excess — if there can be indulgence in wine without excess 
— since the afternoon Miss Bellmont first learned of her 
appetite for it. Perhaps if she learned that wine was the 
cause of their friend’s grief and death, she might be led 
to see the danger in its use and strive to overcome her 
taste for it. 

So he told her how Reginald had ordered wine because 
from his own training he thought a wedding feast incom- 
plete without it. How he had tempted Inez to drink it 
and the result, adding: 

“So you see, my dear, the ruin that one glass of wine 
wrought, and while you and I are in no such danger, the 
physician I consulted the day I brought that medicine said 
unless you gave up the use of stimulants your health would 
be ruined, and you would become a veritable slave to the 
habit. I thought the matter over and decided it were 
best you should know your danger as it is a matter you 
must act upon and fight out yourself. It will doubtless 
cause you a severe struggle at first, but I trust your own 
good judgment will show you the necessity of it, for your 
own sake as well as mine.” 

Isabelle was angry at first, then surprised. It was the 
first time her husband had ever talked to her so. She was 
accustomed to his ridicule or sarcasm; but this calm re- 


158 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

quest and his evident assurance that she would heed it was 
something new and she was not sure whether she liked it 
or not, and only said by way of reply: 

‘'But suppose I can’t let it alone?” 

“I am sure you can when you realize how entirely our 
happiness depends upon it. You must see that you are 
degenerating morally, while I am becoming a pessimistic 
skeptic. And another thing, Isabelle, the wine we keep 
in the house and on the table is a constant menace and 
temptation to the servants. You dismissed two, you re- 
member, for drunkenness just before aunt came. On in- 
quiry I found they had never been drunk before. Is it just 
to keep such temptations before them and then discharge 
them for yielding to them? Then who can say: we may 
have friends to whom wine is dangerous. I do not feel that 
I can sit at the table again where it is served without 
recalling Reginald’s awful death. Think the matter over 
and see if we cannot agree upon some changes.” 

“Does aunt know?” she asked. 

“No. I have told no one but you. Mrs. Montague and 
Reginald’s mother are the only others that are aware of 
the real cause of the crime. I felt Reginald would have 
had it so.” 

Isabelle was very quiet for several days and much to Miss 
Bellmont’s gratification she informed her she would try 
her milk cure. She also began taking the medicine Wil- 
liam had brought ; at the end of a week she surprised them 
both one morning at breakfast by saying: 

“William you may have our wine cellar emptied. Since 
you and aunt do not use wine we will not keep it. I find it 
harder to cure myself of its use than I thought, but if I 
cannot do so I shall keep a little for my own use in my 
room under lock and key.” 

“Are you really trying to quit it?” asked Miss Bell- 
mont, in surprise. 

“Yes. I could not fail to see through your schemes to 
interest me that day, though I did not realize my danger 
at the time. Then William says he cannot endure sitting 


159 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

at the table where it is, since — since it is such a tempta- 
tion to the servants, and the physician says I must quit 
its use or become a common drunkard.” And the beauti- 
ful lips trembled pitifully. 

There was a suspicion of moisture in Bellmont’s eyes and 
he only looked his gratitude. 

“But you are stronger now that you realize your dan- 
ger,” said Miss Bellmont, “and we will help you in any 
way we can. What will you do with all that stuff in the 
cellar, William?” 

“I have been trying to think,” said he. “If I give it 
away or sell it, its power for mischief will not be dimin- 
ished. What do you say to burying it, Isabelle?” 

“It seems to me the only consistent way to get rid of 
it is to destroy it,” she answered. 

So the man from the stable came when breakfast was 
finished and dug a hole in the back yard and James, the 
butler, carried the costly bottles of wine from the cellar 
and broke them one by one over the cave while Isabelle 
herself stood by. 

And she found that her act and the assurance of her 
husband’s and Miss Bellmont ’s sympathy greatly strength- 
ened her, and she had no need to keep wine in her room as 
she feared, but put it from her house that day forever. 


160 


CHAPTER X. 


Since the coming of cool weather Miss Bellmont had found 
more work to do among the poor, and as Isabelle now took 
much of the household management upon herself, the older 
woman had more time to devote to this work. She had or- 
ganized a sewing class among the girls from nine to twelve, 
whose mothers were away from home most of the time at 
work, and taught them to cut and make pants and shirts for 
their brothers and plain dresses and aprons for themselves 
and younger sisters. She also taught them a few simple laws 
of health and cleanliness, of which she found most of them 
sadly ignorant. Many of these girls worked at some fac- 
tory or shop to help eke out a meager income and had 
but little time for personal improvement. But the papers 
and books selected for them by their benefactress were in 
most cases read with interest. 

She managed to meet the mothers, too, occasionally, and 
helped them to solve many a problem in economy and home 
improvement that they were either too careless, tired or 
utterly discouraged to think out for themselves when their 
day’s work was done. 

She was frequently disgusted by the glaring lack of 
principle and common decency that she met almost daily, 
but she schooled herself to see only in her fellow creatures 
an immortal soul for which her Lord had died and to per- 
severe in her attempts to help them. 

Another thought she strove to keep constantly before 
her: if the wickedness and weakness of these people were 
so repulsive to her, how must her own shortcomings look 
in the sight of an all- wise and perfect God? This thought 
served to keep her humble and to temper many a speech 
that would otherwise have been sharp, and therefore dis- 
astrous to the desired results. 


161 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


Late one afternoon as she was returning from a visit 
with her sewing class she stopped to inquire after a family 
one of the girls had told her was in need of someone’s 
assistance, and as she mounted the dark, rickety stairway 
she wondered how children could exist in such dark, not 
infrequently ill-smelling, holes. 

She passed along the dim corridor until she came to the 
right number when she paused and knocked. Once, twice, 
thrice, but there was no response though she was sure 
she had heard childish voices within, but after her first 
knock all became silent as the tomb. 

Presently a door was opened on the opposite side of the 
hall and a woman put her head out and said: 

“Mis Reed ain’t home, an’ she allers locks the boys in 
when she’s gone.” 

Miss Bellmont turned and faced this rather slatternly 
specimen of her sex, and inquired: 

“She is away at work, I suppose, and will be home 
soon?” 

The woman gave a short laugh as she replied: 

“Work! Well, that’s a good’n. I’ve lived here six 
months and I ain’t knowed ’em to work a lick.” 

“Why, how do they live then?” asked Miss Bellmont, in 
surprise. 

“Well, they say he lifts things once in a while,” was 
the reply. 

“Lifts things? Well, is not that work? Does he not re- 
ceive pay for it?” asked Miss Bellmont. 

Again the woman laughed. 

“You don’t tumble, I reckon. I mean he swipes things.” 

“Swipes things,” repeated Miss Bellmont, more puzzled 
than ever, and trying in vain to recall Webster’s definition 
of the word “swipes.” 

“Well, steals ’em then,” said the woman, seeing that 
Miss Bellmont was ignorant of the lingo of the day. 

“Oh, you mean he steals for a living.” 

“He steals fer money ter buy grog with. They don’t 
have much o’ a livin’. The woman used to work, the wom- 


162 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


an that lived here afore I came told me that two or three 
years ago she used to work an’ was good to the children, 
but since her baby died she’s been drinkin’.” 

“That was a poor excuse for drinking, I should think,” 
said Miss Bellmont. 

“You’d think so, I reckon, but you don’t know how 
she’s lived. He never was no ’count, I guess, ’n drinks all 
the time an’ abused her an’ the children. The baby was 
a girl a little more’n a year old. It was alters puny but 
she had to leave it to work, they say, an’ John, that’s the 
oldest boy, took care of it. He never did furnish her noth- 
in’ an’ when it took sick she had to go ahead jist the same. 
Wall, the baby cried most o’ the time of course, an’ Reed 
he said ’twant nothin’, but crossness an’ he’d swear an’ 
beat it an’ finally one night he said he wasn’t goin’ to be 
pestered with it so he couldn’t sleep an’ he took it out 
there to a’ empty room clear away from his an’ put it down 
on the bare floor an’ left it. They heerd Mis Reed cryin’ 
an’ beggin’ him to let her git it, tellin’ him ’twas too cold 
fer it out there, but he made her go back in the room an’ 
he locked the door an’ took out the key. Reed’s danger’s, 
they say, an’ everybody was afeard to bother him. After 
he was asleep Mis Reed took the key out o’ his pocket an’ 
got the baby an’ brought it in here, the woman told me, 
but it was blue with cold, an’ so hoarse it couldn’t cry an’ 
died afore mornin’ Mis Reed took to drinkin’ right away 
an’ now she’s nearly as bad as he is; says she can hear 
her baby cryin’ all the time only when she’s drinkin’. But 
how I’ve talked, you must be tired standin’. Won’t you 
come in my room an ’ rest a mite ? Hist ! There comes Mis 
Reed now an’ she’s nearly dead drunk. Come in till she 
gits by then you can go in an’ see her an’ the boys.” 

Miss Bellmont did as requested and found herself in a 
small, but comparatively neat room, which was evidently 
bedroom, kitchen, sitting-room and laundry combined. 

“Here take this chair; tain’t none too clean fer Trottie’s 
crumbed her cracker on it,” said the woman brushing the 
proffered chair with her apron. 

163 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


Miss Bellmont could not so soon forget the shocking tale 
of cruelty she had just heard and asked: 

“Is there no one to look after such things? Such par- 
ents should not be permitted to keep their children.” 

“Well, the perlice takes up some of ’em once in a while, 
but I reckon they don’t allers know. Then there is a man 
that comes over here once in a while an’ sees into sich 
things a little. His name’s Paul Rivers, but I guess he’s 
kep busy on tother side. I’ll tell ye bad men’s afeard o’ 
him, an’ well they may be.” 

“I have heard of him,” replied Miss Bellmont, “but how 
do you live? You have a husband, I suppose.” 

“Yes, an’ a good one too,” replied the woman. “He 
don’t drink neither, though he’s had discouragement enuf 
if there’s anything in that.” 

Miss Bellmont looked her inquiry and the woman con- 
tinued : 

“When my first baby was born I had a long sick spell 
an’ they told me to drink whisky an’ sich to make me 
stronger, an’ when I got well I couldn’t do without it an’ 
got so’s I’d get plum drunk. My baby didn’t live but 
one day. I’ve thought if it had I’d a’ been different. 
My sickness put us in debt some but we’d a’ got along if 
it hadn’t a’ been fer my drinkin’. It wasn’t so much 
wh^t I spent fer it as ’twas I didn’t manage an’ save 
other ways like I allers had done. We’d bought a little 
place of our own an’ had it most paid fer, but as we could- 
n’t get a head any, Jim had to sell it to pay the debts, an’ 
we come here. Trottie was born though before we sold 
the place. She’s over a year old an’ I’m tryin’ hard to do 
without rum, an’ don’t often give up to drink it. We’re 
gettin’ ahead agin an’ Jim says if we keep on we’ll be able 
to buy another place by spring, an’ I’ll be so glad. It seems 
awful to raise Trottie in a place like this. I’ve washed 
today; that’s why I’m so untidy. I’ll slick up a mite afore 
Jim comes.” 

“Yes, and as it is growing late, I must be hurrying. I 
hope you will overcome your craving for drink. The Lord 


164 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


helps those who try to help themselves. Here is a sandwich 
for Trottie. I will leave the others for the little Reed boys.^’ 

“Well, hurry in then an' give it to ’em while he’s gone, 
fer if he happens ter come in, precious little of it they’ll 
git.” 

“Why, he wouldn’t take food that had been given his 
hungry children?” asked Miss Bellmont, in astonishment. 

“That’s jist what he’d do. The oldest boy’s been ailin’ 
fer some time an’ the other day I took him a dish o’ soup 
an’ what did ole Reed do but gobble the most of it his- 
self. She ain’t quite that bad, but they don’t allow the 
boys out o’ that room an’ alters leave the door locked. 
Sometimes they’re there all day by theirselves with little 
or nothin’ ter eat, but I’m keepin’ ye.” 

Miss Bellmont took up her basket and again knocked at 
the door of the Reed’s. This time it was opened by a 
boy of eight or ten years, who looked pale and sickly. 
Another small boy of five or six years was sitting upon the 
floor, sobbing quietly. He looked wonderingly up as Miss 
Bellmont entered. The older child glanced nervously at 
the bed where the mother lay, apparently sleeping. 

“Is your mother ill, boys?” asked Miss Bellmont. 

“No’m,” briefly replied the oldest boy, his face coloring 
painfully. 

Miss Bellmont ’s heart bled for the worse than mother- 
less children. She coaxed them to her and gave them the 
sandwiches, saying: 

“Eat all you want now and save the rest for breakfast, 
and now you’ll tell me your names, won’t you, and what 
you do here?” 

“My name’s Robbie Reed, an’ he’s my brother, John,” 
replied the younger child, who seemed the more talkative 
of the two. “An’ we was so hungry all day, an’ when 
ma come an’ didn’t fetch us nothin’, I cried. John’s sick 
an’ he don’t git hungry as I do.” 

“Have you been sick long?” asked Miss Bellmont, who 
noticed that he ate only a few bites of the food. 

“I guess I’m not very sick,” replied John, hesitatingly. 


165 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


‘‘I’m just weak an’ can’t eat like Robbie.” 

She took the child on her lap and felt his hands and 
forehead. They were hot and feverish. 

“Is there anything you want, John? Anything you 
could eat or drink? I’m coming back tomorrow to see 
you. What shall I bring?” 

“I could drink some cold water, ma’am,” he replied, 
timidly. 

Miss Bellmont glanced around the room. Its only furni- 
ture was a bedstead, a stove and one chair; a box served 
for a table and on it sat a bucket that contained a little 
water, but it had evidently been there for some time. 

“Where do you get water, John?” she asked. 

“At the well down stairs; but we daren’t go.” 

Miss Bellmont placed the child in the chair and took the 
bucket, which held only a half gallon, and went for the 
water herself. 

Both John and Robbie drank greedily. It was now 
growing dark and Miss Bellmont after again saying she 
would come on the morrow hurried away. 

After Miss Bellmont went away the little Reed boys 
ate more heartily and drank most of the water before 
they went to their bed, which was only a pile of rags, and 
none too clean at that. 

Robbie was soon fast asleep but his brother could not 
sleep. His head had been aching all day and a slow fever was 
gradually consuming him. Perhaps he had eaten too hearti- 
ly after his long fast or had taken too much of the stag- 
nant water during the day. His fever grew higher as the 
night advanced and his head seemed ready to burst as 
he tossed about on his bed of rags. If he only dared 
wake his mother and ask her to bring him a cold drink. 
He could remember when he would have done just that. 
But now he only tried to be as quiet as possible in his 
suffering for fear of disturbing her, for he knew why she 
slept so soundly; he also knew how cross she would be if 
disturbed. 

But how he craved a cold drink ! At last he crept slowly 

166 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


toward the box where the water was, but found he was 
unable to raise himself sufficiently to reach the water and 
was obliged to creep back without it. 

He did not know how long he lay there moaning softly, 
when his mother awoke. She lit a smoky lamp and gazed 
stupidly around. Seeing the remains of the boys^ supper 
on the box, she began eating it. 

John waited until she had finished before he said: 

“Ma, I’m so sick; please bring me a drink.” 

Whether Mrs. Reed’s heart was touched by the plaintive 
appeal or whether the food, which was better than she had 
tasted for a long time, served to sweeten her temper, we 
cannot say, but John was please to hear her reply: 

“Wall, I reckon; but there ain’t much here. Drink it 
an’ I’ll git some more. I swan I ’bleve you’ve done got a 
fever.” She brought a pillow from the bed and placed 
it under John’s head. “I’ll not be long,” she said, as 
she left the room. 

Surely she meant to keep her word to the sick child. 
But downstairs she found a group of men and women talk- 
ing in low, excited tones. Her husband was in the group 
and she joined it. They were discussing the success of a 
recent robbery and dividing the spoils, and planning an- 
other that they all agreed would be more profitable. Her 
husband handed her a bill, saying: 

“Here, old girl, take this and drink to our success to- 
night.” 

It was the first money he had given her in years and 
nothing loath she proceeded to do his bidding. A grog 
shop was right by the stairway and — well, poor John waited 
and moaned and begged for water that night until Robbie 
awoke. 

“What’s you cryin’ fer, John? You hungry?” he asked, 
sleepily rubbing his eyes. 

“Oh, no. I want a drink so bad.” 

Robbie who was getting wider awake arose and started 
toward the box, whereon usually sat the bucket, but not 
seeing it, he paused and looked doubtfully around. 

167 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Oh; it ain’t there, Robbie. Ma took it and said she’d 
be back right away, but she’s been gone so long.” 

Robbie glanced at the bed where his mother had been 
and then came slowly back and sat down beside his suffer- 
ing brother. The lamp light flickered fitfully and made 
ghostly shadows on the walls, but no thought of fear en- 
tered Robbie’s mind. He was consumed with a desire to 
relieve John and trying to think how he could get him the 
water. He was shivering with cold, but gave no thought 
to his own comfort. John was all he had in the world to 
love or to love him. John could remember how their moth- 
er used to love them and tell them Bible stories and rocked 
and sang to them. But Robbie could not, and John had 
told him the stories when he was restless or hungry and 
would sing to him and try in his childish way to make up 
to him what he missed in the mother. Robbie, himself, ex- 
perienced no feelings for his parents, except fear when 
they came, and relief when they went away. 

So John was indeed all he had to look to for love or sym- 
pathy and what wonder that he was anxious to satisfy his 
thirst if it were possible. He thought earnestly for some 
moments and then said doubtfully: 

“Mebbe I could go find her er git the water.” 

“She wouldn’t like it, an’ ain’t the door locked?” 

Robbie hastened to examine the door. 

“No, tain’t locked,” he cried, in delight; “an’ I’m goin’ 
anyway. Mebbe I can find some water.” And Robbie 
went out with no very definite idea where his search should 
begin. 

First he went to the public well, where his mother got 
water. Of course she was not there. Oh, if he could only 
draw the water. But the buckets were large and heavy 
and the well so deep and dark. He shrank hastily back 
after one glance into its terrifying depths. 

The night was dark, cold and stormy. An occasional 
street lamp and a light snow that was falling saved the 
night from utter darkness, but the wind was becoming 
stronger and colder every moment. Robbie clung to the 


168 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


well curb and gazed eagerly at every passer-by in the hopes 
of seeing father or mother. He knew they would be angry 
but he believed they would take John a drink, and this 
was his sole thought now. But he saw no familiar face, 
and every one was in such a hurry. After standing thus 
for some time in bewildered dismay, it occurred to him to 
go to the grog shop, where he knew both father and mother 
spent much of their time, and inquire for them. So he en- 
tered the shop where, but a few hours before, his mother 
had been, but she was not to be seen. There was but one 
man in the room and accosting him Robbie asked: 

‘‘Ain’t my pa or ma been here? John wants some water 
an’ I can’t find pa or ma.” 

“Well, they ain’t here; so be off. Don’t want no sich 
kids aroun’,” was the gruff reply. 

“But they come here don’t they? I’m Robbie Reed, an’ 
I have to get some water ” 

“I say I don’t know nothin’ ’bout yer pa an’ ma, ’cept- 
in’ they owe me more’n they’ll ever pay,” said the man, 
more roughly. But Robbie was used to rough talk and 
persisted : 

“But I want to find ma so bad, ’cause John’s sick an’ I 
can’t git the water. If I could ” 

“ now will ye go!” exclaimed the man, giving poor 

Robbie a kick that made him stagger. 

Catching to the door he managed to get out of the room 
and climbed up the stairway a few steps and sat down to 
try to decide what he should do next. He would not think 
of going back to John without the water, yet his recent 
rebuff made him more fearful of asking assistance, and he 
knew but little of his surroundings, not having been often 
permitted to leave the room. 

At last what seemed a happy thought came to the baby 
mind, and he brushed the tears, caused by the cruel kick, 
from his eyes and arose. He would find the good lady 
who brought their supper. Surely she would get John a 
drink. 

He slipped cautiously by the grog shop and out into 

169 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


the night, pausing a moment to look about him and decide 
which way he should go, he started off toward what he 
supposed to be the wealthiest part of the city. 

Imagine, if you can, a more utterly forlorn and desolate 
creature than was little Robbie Reed, as he went forth that 
cold, dark night in quest of succor for his sick brother. 
Yet no thought of his own discomfort or danger was in 
his mind as he trudged bravely along, shivering with cold, 
and straining his eyes to see his way in the darkness. 

The streets were now deserted, save by an occasional po- 
liceman, and these Robbie knew nothing of, except that 
they would get him if he came in their way, and to avoid 
them as much as possible he took to dodging behind boxes 
and barrels. In this way he wandered on nearly half an 
hour, but instead of finding the better section of the city, 
as he had hoped, the buildings were becoming fewer and 
more wretched, if possible, than the ones he had left. 
Numb with cold he was pausing a moment to try to de- 
cide whether he should press on or try to retrace his steps, 
when a policeman emerged from a house nearby and walked 
toward him. He turned in fright and dodging into a 
darker alley, he ran as fast as he could; the policeman’s 
shouts and attempts to overtake him only increasing his 
fright and speed, until, thinking that perhaps he had been 
mistaken, and the fleeing object was only a dog, the police- 
man gave up the chase. Then, pausing to catch his breath, 
Robbie found himself in total darkness and knew not which 
way to turn to make his way back to the wider and lighter 
street. He wandered about for some time, sobbing quietly 
from cold, fright and fatigue, starting in terror at every 
sound, until he stumbled against a large box. Robbie was 
now so cold he could hardly walk; his feet and legs were 
numb and could scarcely be forced to move at all, and 
he resolved to creep into this box and rest awhile. Here 
he was sheltered from the cutting wind, but no sooner 
had he become quiet than the fatal drowsiness began to 
overpower him. He tried to shake it off, thinking of the 
waiting, suffering brother at home. 


170 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Oh, John, is you thirsty yet? I tried so hard, but I’m 
so cold an’ sleepy I can’t walk. I can’t git up. I ” 

These words were spoken scarcely above a whisper and 
at the last he sank back in the box and his eyes closed 
in a deep long sleep. 

Surely the angels must have opened wide the pearly 
gates, and surely the gentle Saviour must have received 
him with more than wonted tenderness, when he passed 
through. Having known nothing in this world but neglect 
and abuse; deserted by parents; kicked from the room by 
the man who had helped degrade and brutalize them ; driven 
forth in the night by anxiety for his brother, and over- 
come at last by cold and fatigue: what a glorious place 
heaven would seem when his baby eyes opened to behold it ! 

It was near morning when the mother returned to find 
one son gone and the other raving in delirium, calling for 
water, for Robbie and herself, and hurrying away again 
she soon returned, this time bringing the water. 

Robbie’s absence and John’s illness partly sobered her, 
and after satisfying John’s thirst she inquired for Rob- 
bie. 

“Robbie? Yes, Robbie, went to hunt you and the water. 
But he stayed so long. The water’s good but tain’t cold. 
Where’s pa an’ little sister? Sing, ma, sing, like ye use 
ter do.” 

Almost sobered now the wretched mother’s feelings were 
a mixture of remorse, alarm and dread. 

Why had she left them so long, when John was so ill? 
if Robbie had gone out in the cold where was he now? If 
her husband had been successful, he should have been home 
by now. Why had she not tried to prevent his going at 
all? Not that she supposed it would have done the least 
good, still she believed she would have felt better had she 
done so. 

Like as not he had been taken and was now in jail. But 
her chief anxiety was for her children, and a long train of 
abuse and neglect passed before her mind’s eyes, as she 
looked back over the past two years. Then she began to 

171 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


feel that this was her just punishment, and almost without 
realizing it she was bitterly repenting neglected duties. 

Meanwhile she had not been idle ; the bed had been 
made as comfortable as possible and John placed upon it. 
Then with the pile of rags and the only remaining chair, 
broken in pieces, she kindled a fire in the grate, and placing 
the water in John’s reach, she hurried out to look for the 
missing child. 

Her first thought was to look for him on the streets, 
but as she reached the stairway, it occurred to her that 
possibly he might have gone in at a neighbor’s room, though 
such an act had been strictly forbidden. 

She knocked at the door nearest her own, which was 
opened by the woman who had entertained Miss Bellmont 
the evening before, whose name was Lane. 

Mrs. Reed inquired for the child, telling only as much 
of the happenings of the night as she saw fit. Mrs. Lane 
guessed the rest, and said: 

‘‘La, no, he ain’t bin here. Why didn’t he come I won- 
der; I’d a’ took ’em water an’ stayed with ’em till you 
got back. But you mustn’t go out to hunt Robbie. I’ll 
wake my Jim. Jim sleeps sound. I was jist up with Trot- 
tie’s how I came to hear you so quick. You go back to 
John, an’ as soon as Jim gits started I’ll come in an’ stay 
with you. Jim ’ll tell the police an’ they’ll find ’im quicker 
’n you could.” 

“Well, it’s good o’ you, but I feel as if I couldn’t be 
still in the house till he’s found. I ortn’t ’a stayed so 
long. I didn’t aim to, but — well, I didn’t know I had been 
so long till I got back.” 

“A body will fergit some time,” said Mrs. Lane, as she 
turned to arouse her husband. 

Mrs. Reed re-entered her own room, where she was soon 
joined by Mrs. Lane. 

“Jim’s gone. He says Robbie’s likely at a pelice station 
by this time. He thinks somebody’s surely run across 
him and knowed he ortn’t to be out.” 


172 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


“You kin set on the bed by John. I jist broke up the 
chair to make a fire,” said Mrs. Reed. 

“Well, ’twon’t last long,” said Mrs. Lane. “If you 
don’t mind I’ll bring in a mite o’ coal. John ort ter have a 
warm room, I’m thinkin’.” And as there was no objection 
Mrs. Lane returned to her room and brought back some 
coal and put it on the fire, saying: 

“You see it’s bin turnin’ cold all night, but’s jist begin- 
in’ to git in the house good, and’ as it’s the first real cold 
spell, it hurts a body worse.” 

“Yes, an’ Robbie wasn’t dressed warm,” said Mrs. Reed. 
“An’, oh, if they don’t find him a’ fore long I think I’ll 
go crazy.” 

“Now, don’t you worry. Jim ’ll not be gone long, an’ 
he’ll likely find out somethin.’ Robbie couldn’t a ’a’ gone 
fur — there John’s wakin’ up,” she broke off, as John, who 
had ben resting since he was placed upon the bed, turned 
and opened his eyes. 

“I want a drink, ma. Why don’t Robbie come? He 
said he ’d git me a drink. ’ ’ 

He was given a drink when he again sank upon the bed 
and closed his eyes. 

As the first streaks of dawn appeared, Mrs. Lane arose, 
saying : 

“I must go now an’ have Jim’s breakfast. He’ll be most 
froze an ’ll have to go to work early, but he won’t come 
till he finds out ’bout Robbie.” 

A half hour later the stiffened form of little Robbie was 
brought up the stairway, and least the shock should prove 
too much for John, the little corpse was placed on a bed 
in Mrs. Lane’s room. 

The mother’s grief was pitiable to see, and good Mrs. 
Lane was almost distracted trying to comfort her, looking 
after John and wondering where on earth the clothes and 
other necessities were to come from, in which to bury 
Robbie. 


173 


CHAPTER XI. 


Sometime later in the day, Wm. Bellmont lay on a couch 
in the library, looking over the daily paper. Looking up 
presently, he said: 

“IVe been reading the casualties of last night’s storm. 
Only one death reported so far; it was so sudden and 
severe, it’s a wonder there isn’t more.” 

‘^One person frozen to death in this city! How dread- 
ful,” said Miss Bellmont. 

“Yes. Reed, a very small child only five years old. He 
seems to have . been lost or wandered away from home ; 
was found in a — why, aunt, what’s to pay?” 

But Miss Bellmont had vanished and William sat up 
and stared at the doorway in surprise. 

I suppose now she’s rushed off to investigate, he thought, 
and for a moment was half resolved to follow in case she 
should need assistance or protection. Then he smiled at 
the idea of his aunt’s needing assistance or protection, and 
resumed his paper. 

Miss Bellmont had hastily donned cloak and hat and was 
walking rapidly toward the tenement she had visited the 
evening before. How she blamed herself for not better 
providing for the children’s comfort. She had not heard 
the last of the particulars and supposed the child had been 
frozen to death in the room, and the fact that it was Rob- 
bie, instead of John, puzzled her, since Robbie had seemed 
the more robust of the two. 

It was with great relief that Mrs. Lane welcomed her 
again to her humble home. Mrs. Reed being yet too stupi- 
fied by grief to care or notice who came or what took place 
around her. 

“You see it’s all so sudden like, the pore thing can’t 

174 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


sense it yet,” Mrs. Lane explained, in an undertone. “Com- 
in^ back an^ findin’ Robbie gone an^ John ravin’, an’ then 
Robbie bein’ brung back dead, an’ as if that want nuff, that 
onery man o’ hern must go an’ git took up fer ’tempted 
robbery. John ain’t had no medicine an’ they ain’t noth- 
in ’ to bury pore Robbie in, as I can find. ’ ’ 

“That’s what I came about,” said Miss Bellmont. “The 
sick child must have attention first. You may tell me the 
particulars afterward. Is there any one that could be sent 
for a physician?” 

“Yes, there’s a boy down stairs’ll go. Jim had to work 
today an’ was gone afore I had time ter think an’ there’s 
nobody up here I wanted to leave here, or I’d a went my- 
self, but I’ll see if that boy’s in now. Who’ll he go after?” 

“The nearest one I suppose, provided he is a good phy- 
sician,” said Miss Bellmont, and Mrs. Lane disappeared 
down the stairway. 

Miss Bellmont turned to the grief-stricken mother and 
tried to comfort her, but her words seemingly fell upon 
deaf ears, and she presently turned her attention to the 
room where John lay still feverish, but quiet and uncom- 
plaining. She did what she could to tidy up the room, 
mentally making notes of the things needful for the sick 
child’s comfort. 

Before she had quite finished Mrs. Lane came to the door 
and beconed her out in the hall. 

“I’ve got the best doctor in the city,” she said, proudly. 
“That boy was gone an’ I went mysef. The first doctor I 
called fer was out an’ I met this man on the street an’ 
asked him to come. He’s a queer sort, they say, part 
doctor, part preacher, an’ missionary, an’ the Lord knows 
what all, but the best o’ any' of ’em. There he comes now.” 
And Mrs. Lane disappeared inside her own door and was 
back with a chair in time to enter the sick room before 
Paul Rivers, for of course it was he. She placed the chair 
beside the bed and stationed herself at the foot. 

Paul Rivers examined his patient carefully and then 


175 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


seating himself in the chair he looked thoughtfully at him 
in silence. 

‘‘Do you think he’s very bad, sir?” asked Mrs. Lane. 

“Yes, he is very ill; has been for some time. Is he your 
child?” was the reply. 

“No, he ain’t mine.” 

And on being questioned, Mrs. Lane gave him a history of 
the Reeds as far as she knew it, dwelling more particularly 
on the last two days; how John was taken ill and left by 
his parents and how Robbie had started in search of water 
and been brought back dead, closing with: 

“An’ I don’t know what’s ter become o’ Mis’ Reed if 
she has ter loose John, too. ’Pears like she’s most crazy 
now. ’ ’ 

Mr. Rivers had prepared John’s medicine while she was 
speaking, and when she had finished he said: 

“I will see her a moment.” 

Mrs. Lane showed him to the door and then came back 
to Miss Bellmont, saying: 

“They say that’s the way he always goes; his Bible in 
one hand and his medicine in tother. Well, I hope he’ll 
say suthin’ to comfort the pore soul; she needs it.” 

So thought Paul Rivers when he looked into her worn 
face and read therein the bitterness of despair. 

‘ ‘ I have been to see your sick child, Mrs. Reed ; he is very 
ill, but God is merciful and may spare him to you yet,” 
said he. 

She looked at him a moment in silence, scarcely compre- 
hending his words, then she said: 

“Oh, no. God is not merciful to such as me. He’s only 
just.” And her eyes turned to the little form on the bed, 
and her tears began to fall. 

Paul Rivers said nothing for a moment. He knew” she 
had done very wrong, but he left her judgment to One 
able to understand her peculiar weakness and temptations, 
and saw before him only a distressed soul in need of help. 
Finally he said: 

“Mrs. Reed, your neighbor tells me you are a Christian; 

176 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


as such you know where to look for help in this dark hour. 
You know your babes who have gone before are safe with 
Him, who loved and blessed such as they while on earth; 
you can be thankful that your husband was prevented 
committing the crime he intended and hope that his im- 
prisonment will cause a pause in his present life and mark 
the beginning of a new; and in the meantime your living 
child requires all your attention.” 

“Oh, I used to think I was a Christian,” said Mrs. Reed, 
replying to the first part of his speech, “but lately all has 
been so dark I don’t know. Some times I think they ain’t 
no God, at least for the poor. Of course I’m wrong. But 
why, oh why, does a God o ’ mercy, as you call Him, let such 
awful things happen?” 

“My dear, madam, if this world were all, we might in- 
deed doubt the existence of a God. But have you not read 
in His word that justice is certain in the end? That our 
works are to follow us when we leave this world and by 
them we are to be judged, whether they be good or evil?” 

“Yes, I’ve read and I know I’ve been wicked, but it 
seemed I couldn’t help it.” 

“Have you not read also how very kind and patient the 
Saviour is with those who try to do His will ? Did you ever 
read of His being angry with one who was trying to follow 
Him no matter how they erred?” 

“No, I can’t say I ever did.” 

“Then can you not believe He will forgive you and help 
you if you ask Him?” 

“But I have been so wicked. I left my children to starve, 
while I spent money for drink and if I had been with ’em 
last night, Robbie wouldn’t ’a’ gone out.” 

“And if something had not occurred to stop you prob- 
ably you would have gone on to a drunkard’s grave,” said 
Mr. Rivers, gravely. “Can you not see in it all the hand of 
a loving Father, who would draw you from the dangerous 
road you have been traveling, back into His own narrow 
but safe pathway ? ‘ The Lord loveth whom he chasteneth. ’ ’ ’ 

Mrs. Reed sat a moment in silence, and then replied: 

177 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Ill try to look at it as you do. I must find comfort 
some where or die. But it looks dark to me yet.’’ 

“You have been traveling a dark road,” was the reply. 
“But with God’s help you will find your way back into 
the light one.” And Paul Rivers took his leave, thinking 
as he descended the stairway: 

“The same old story. Drunkenness on the part of the 
parents for which the innocent children must sulfer.” 

Miss Bellmont made arrangements for Robbie’s burial, 
and fitted up a comfortable bed for John, after which she 
took her leave, promising to return the next day and accom- 
pany Mrs. Reed to the burying ground. 

Miss Bellmont had made no comment when Mrs. Lane 
had told the particulars of Robbie ’s wanderings as far 
as she knew them to Mr. Rivers, and a casual observer might 
have thought her indifferent, but she had been deeply stirred, 
both by the story of the baby’s death, that she had heard 
the evening before, and by Robbie’s death, and the cruel 
way John had been neglected. 

She was certain some one was terribly to blame for 
these dreadful occurrences. She blamed herself for leav- 
ing the boys as she had the night before. Such parents 
should not be trusted with their children, though just what 
she could, or should have done she scarcely knew. Of course 
she could not foresee such things as had occurred or she 
would certainly have done something. Such things as rum 
shops should not be permitted among the poor to tempt 
them to starve their children and abuse and desert them, 
she concluded. Why didn’t some one stop them? 

By the time she reached home she had fretted herself in- 
to an indignant excitement that was not cooled by find- 
ing William lying comfortably where she had left him. 

“William, how can you lie quietly here while so much sin 
and misery exist almost at your door?” 

William arose to a sitting posture and looked his sur- 
prise. 

“Sin? Misery? In what form has it appeared now?” 

“In it’s very worst, I should say.” 

178 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


And she gave him a graphic account of the Reed’s, en- 
larging upon the baby’s death and Robbie’s fatal journey 
in quest of water for his sick brother. Adding: 

“And something of the kind is going on all the time. 
Sunday, I learn, is the worst day for drunkenness in the 
lower quarters and there are continual brawls with no 
attempt to check them, and little or no attempt to punish 
the lawless. Why do you not do something? How can 
you, a Christian man, rest quietly here, knowing about these 
things as you do?” 

William’s face had grown dark as his aunt had told the 
story of the Reeds, but as she finished speaking, he said: 

“My dear, aunt, what can I do? I can’t turn detective 
and attempt to ferret out every liquor dealer who breaks 
the laws.” Then more lightly. “Come, aunt, take Isa- 
belle’s advice and avoid all the unpleasant things of life 
you can. You’ll have quite enough then, I assure you, 
without poking around hunting them up. Quit it at once 
if you have a care for your peace of mind. Shut your 
eyes to the wicked and repulsive things of life, and see 
only the pleasant side of things. That’s optimism of to- 
day, and I strongly advise you to cultivate it.” And Wil- 
liam resumed his book. 

“I am surprised, William, that you can be so heartless,” 
said his aunt, severely, “as to actually shut your eyes to 
the needs of your fellow creatures.” 

Again Bellmont put his book aside and half amused, half 
annoyed, he asked : 

“Well, then what would you have me do? I can’t go 
out and shoot all these rum selling gentry, much as I may 
feel inclined to do so. There are unfortunately, stringent 
laws against such proceedings, and I have no desire to 
go dancing out of this vale of tears with a hemp necktie 
and a purple complexion. Hemp neckties, I’m told, are 
decidedly uncomfortable, while a purple complexion, I do 
not think, would be particularly enhancing to my style of 
beauty, besides.” 


179 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


‘'William Bellmont would anything under the sun in- 
duce you to talk sense a few moments?” 

William recognized the low, stern voice that in former 
days had marked the limit of his aunt’s patience. She 
used to speak to him in just that tone of voice after his 
very worst pranks and further indulgence in mischief that 
day had invariably been followed by a visit to a dark closet 
or a sound thrashing. 

Perhaps he feared some such denouement even now for 
he glanced warily at her over the edge of his book, but 
seeing her sink into a chair and begin taking off her gloves 
he resolved upon a final shot before the surrender he saw 
was inevitable. So he said: 

“Oh, so it’s sense you want. I notice that is what most 
reformers want, but they seldom have the modesty to con- 
fess their need and seek it with such persistency. One 
would think you a modern Solomon, the way you seek 
understanding and run after knowledge. And like Solomon, 
you shall not go unrewarded if my somewhat limited stock 
of wisdom can benefit you. What particular kind of sense 
do you feel most in need of?” 

“I do not see that you are becoming any more sensible, 
and, William, this is a very serious question, it seems to 
me. Men and women degraded and brutalized and little 
children beaten and left to die from cold and hunger. Rum 
shops among the poor and ignorant are a constant menace 
to morals and decent living. Where do such practices 
originate and why are they permitted in a free Christian 
land like this? That’s what I would like to know.” 

William put his book aside and arose. He walked the 
length of the room and back before he replied: 

“Well, aunt, as to where the practice of liquor selling 
and drinking originated, I think there can be but one opin- 
ion. They originated from the Devil, and with so many of 
our people slaves to the liquor habit or to the liquor dealer, 
the old gentleman has about as good a hold on this free 
land of ours as he wants. It is only fair to the liquor dealer 
to say that he does not go into business with the avowed 


180 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


intention of starving children, killing people and ruining 
souls. He adopts it as an easy way of making money. If 
the before mentioned crimes follow he does not consider 
himself to blame for them. His business is legal ; permitted 
by an enlightened government and people. Why should he 
not make money at it, and has he not a right to do 
all in his power to increase his business. The merchants 
in other trades frequently give samples of their goods 
to persons whom they hope to make permanent customers. 
Why should not he? As to why such a business is permit- 
ted you might ask a dozen different persons and receive 
as many different answers. In former days we are told that 
nations and individuals were permitted to go on in crime 
because their cup of wickedness was not yet full, but it 
the liquor dealer’s cup of iniquity is not about full then it 
must be an exceedingly large one. Still the crime is a 
national one and I will say to you when in traveling over 
our country I see* the many evils resulting from this busi- 
ness, when I see men and women reduced to the most ab- 
ject slavery by it, when I know that boys and girls are 
lured by it to lives of sin and shame and innocent children 
and babes neglected, beaten and left to die because of it, 
and that our prisons, insane asylums and alms houses are 
filled chiefly through this one great evil, I say when I 
know all these things are results of the liquor trade and 
am forced to acknowledge that my government actually 
compromises with and does but little to check the baleful 
work, I have felt that if the whole country, with its long 
train of crimes, could be swept from the face of the earth, 
buried in the depth of the ocean or hidden somewhere 
from view, I’d gladly be swept with it. And when one 
glances back over the ages at nation’s crimes from the 
Israelites down to our own, but recently abolished slave 
trade, and bears in mind that said crimes have invariably 
been atoned for by the erring nation’s blood, one may 
well tremble at the terrible mountain of sin that has been 
accumulating against our own nation these years, because 
of the liquor traffic. 


181 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

'‘But, William, you don’t think a war necessary to stop 
the sale of liquor,” said his aunt. 

“Who can say? War has been waged for lesser evils. 
War is dreadful, but so are the results of the liquor traffic 
dreadful, and if Odd in His wrath shall require that every 
drop of blood shed, every innocent life taken, every broken 
heart, every body ruined and every soul ensnared by it 
shall be paid for in blood, who would dare say that His 
judgments were not true and righteous, as of old.” 

“But, William, that sounds dreadful. I didn’t mean 
that. War is wrong.” 

“Since when has it become wrong, if I might ask?” re- 
marked William. 

“Well, since the Christian era, I presume.” 

“Then our revolution and rebellion was wrong, and all 
participants therein criminals instead of the heroes we 
have been taught to believe them. No, aunt, war may 
be really wrong, as you say, but at present it is the only 
antidote we have for some crimes just as poison is the 
only antidote we have for some poisons, and while good 
and evil dwell together on this earth, it will be adminis- 
tered in small and large doses. And you talk of dread- 
fulness of war. What can be more dreadful than some 
of the crimes permitted in the reign of peace. This 
same liquor trade, for instance. There can be more loss of 
life, to say nothing of crime and suffering traced to it, 
than to any war in history. Yet we are horrified at the mere 
suggestion that a war might be required to end it, but if 
a foreign nation should kill or wrong one of our country- 
men we would don our fighting togs and talk war until 
we were black in the face. Having our citizens killed 
abroad by some foreigner, perhaps one a year, and having 
them killed at home by the thousands, by men who pay us 
good money for the privilege, are too widely different 
things you see. Great is American patriotism! But I am 
no advocate of war. I believe crime can be fought down 
by more human methods. If people, supposed to be inter- 
ested in saving souls, would unite in demanding better con- 


182 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


ditions and environment they could do 'wonders in mitigat- 
ing crime, and smoothing and straightening the path of 
the Lord for their weaker brother for whom it is often 
very rough and crooked. We see them stumble almost 
daily into some snare of the liquor trade, see the chains 
wound more surely about them with each dram they take 
and then drug slowly, but surely to a drunkard’s grave — 
to a drunkard’s hell — and we say scarcely a word. We 
see our boys caught in the seething whirlpool and started 
on the road to ruin, but we cannot help it. Of course we’re 
sorry to think they have no more sense, but there always 
have been foolish boys and we presume there always -will 
be. The liquor trade would be a troublesome thing to deal 
with, so we leave the boys to their fate and discuss our 
church creeds and the future state of the unsaved. 

“We know that innocent children are starved and abused 
as a result of this same liquor traffic, but we do not permit 
it to disturb the even tenor of our lives. We presume there 
always has been suffering in the world and likely always 
will be, so we content ourselves with building elegant 
church houses, employing pastors who will preach to suit 
us, and not ruffle our feelings in any way, and send what 
ever we can spare conveniently to missions.” 

William paused a moment in his walk about the room 
and gazed reflectively into the fire. Miss Bellmont swayed 
thoughtfully back and forth, but remained silent and pres- 
ently William continued: 

“I have often wondered, aunt, what Christ would do 
should He come among His churches in person today. 
When He came to the Jewish people He found they had 
made God’s temple a den for thieves and He drove them 
out instantly, and we are inclined to think of them as very 
wicked people, but how much better is the church of to- 
day? The chuch officials may be in the liquor business in 
a wholesale, therefore respectable, way, and if he con- 
tributes liberally no one objects to his business. Other 
prominent members go in for gambling in a genteel way, 
and sometimes swindle hundreds out of their last dollar.” 


183 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. . 


Again William paused, and his aunt, who was instantly 
on the defensive, said: 

“And in short, William, you are thoroughly disgusted 
with Christianity and wish yourself back in the world, 
where crime and inconsistency are unknown.” 

“I — I did not say so, aunt,” said he. 

“Your words imply as much at least,” was the calm re- 
ply. “And, William, are you not also disgusted with 
American people? Why, you cannot look at a paper, but 
you see crimes of all sorts, often too revolting even to 
mention. Do you not wish you were a citizen of some re- 
spectable heathen country or other where crime* is un- 
known ? ’ ^ 

William was silent a moment and then replied, slowly: 

“I had not thought of it in that way before, and, be- 
lieve me, aunt, my words were not prompted by a desire 
to find fault with the church. We are often severest with 
those whom we love best. I want to have faith in my church, 
yet it seems to me we should do something besides build 
church houses and send out missionaries. The saloons, 
gambling dens and other like resorts are not afraid of the 
churches. ’ ’ 

“Perhaps not as churches, yet almost every reform or 
good work that has been done, was brought about by 
Christian men and women, though it is usually done in 
such a quiet way that some one else usually claims and 
gets the credit for it. 

“Our country itself was founded by Christian men and 
women, strong enough in their faith to brave the dangers 
of a long voyage and the perils of the wilderness, that they 
and their children might be able to worship God conscienti- 
ously, and while we are prone to smile at their rude lives, 
who can say how much of God’s toleration of our crimes as 
a nation today, is due to their piety and strict religious 
principles? Like the wayward Israelites of old. who were 
not entirely cut off because of the promise to Abraham, per- 
haps we too are not cut off or destroyed, because of our 
forefathers’ faithfulness. History repeats itself, you 


184 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


know. Then, too, while our but recently abolished slave 
trade was ended by the government, it was the persistent 
teaching, preaching and writing of Christian people that 
brought public opinion up to the point of demanding it, 
and so I think it must be with the liquor trade and like 
evils. 

“The government must ultimately end them, but it rests 
with Christian people to train public opinion up to demand- 
ing it, and that, I admit, we are not doing as we should. 
But, William, my boy, I have thought these things out for 
myself long ago, and decided that I am responsible to 
God, only, for my own talents, my own life and influence, 
and these I mean to use as best I can in spite of discour- 
agement and seeming defeat. Just my own little niche is 
all I am required to fill. God will take care of results and 
the rest of His church.’’ 

“A brave resolution, aunt,” replied William, soberly, 
“and you seem to have found your little niche. Perhaps I 
shall mine in time ; anyway you have given me a finer grip 
on faith and a more wholesome view of Christianity. But 
I still believe that the church is neglecting many of her 
most sacred obligations. She should demand a purer 
membership and be more zealous in saving souls and, in what 
seems to me to amount to the something, in destroying evils 
that ruin them.” 

“And I agree with you,” replied his aunt. “Yet careless 
and inconsistent as Christianity seems to be, it has done 
more for the world than anything else. It is still the salt 
that is saving humanity, and while many of us seem to have 
lost our savor, there are many earnest, consecrated Chris- 
tians who are pouring out their very heart’s blood in bat- 
tle with sin, counting it but their reasonable service to do 
so. They have the faith of an old minister, I once heard. 
He said if God should order him to walk through a stone 
wall it would be his business to walk up to the wall; God’s 
business to show him the way through. And if more of 
us had faith like that many walls of sin, that now look so 
formidable, would soon be crumbled to dust. But no; we 


185 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


have not the faith to walk up to the wall and God can do 
nothing until we do. We must put ourselves in a right at- 
titude toward God, then wait for the still small voice within 
to tell us what to do, and if we waste our time and bury 
our talents until every one is done quarreling or sinning 
we will do nothing, but if we quietly use our time and 
talents to the best of our knowledge we will not only in- 
fluence others to do likewise, but in the end will have the 
joy of hearing the ‘well done thou good and faithful serv- 
ant.’ ” 

“And of course you think I am wasting my time,” said 
William, dropping back to his old quizzical manner of speech 
that Miss Bellmont had learned to ignore entirely. “You 
also seem to think I have a talent stowed away somewhere, 
but if so it must be very small as I have been unable to find 
it up to date. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ A very small pick if wielded by a strong and willing arm 
can make a large hole in a wall; so a very small talent if 
used wisely, can work wonders,” was the reply. 

“Perhaps you will mention one of the wonders I might ac- 
complish,” observed William. “I may conclude to sift my- 
self and hunt up my talent and shall want to know how to 
use it.” 

“You will have to know what your talent is before you 
can use it to much advantage. And the best way to sift 
yourself and discover that is to pick up and do the little 
things that lie about. Doing this will bring to light your 
talent for doing greater things, if you have one.” 

“And these little things? For instance,” said William, 
more soberly. 

“Oh, they are too numerous to mention,” replied his aunt. 
“But for instance you could have some of the dens of sin 
in this city watched and their keepers punished, when they 
break the laws, which they do almost daily. You could also 
use your influence toward securing better officers. The ig- 
norant voter needs to be shown how unpatriotic it is to sell 
or buy votes and how it prevents the voice of the people 
from ruling as it should.” 


186 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“And all this with one little talent or perhaps none at 
all,” said William. “But of course I know what you mean, 
aunt, and ought to be ashamed of my good-for-nothing ban- 
ter when you must be tired. You are a bom leader, and I 
will be your humble follower. I will take up my little pick 
and go to work on this liquor traffic wall at opce. That I 
presume is the way Mr. Rivers began and he is making a hole 
of no mean size too, he has already given me much good ad- 
vice, and will perhaps help me more. Here, aunt, lie on this 
couch and rest.” And William wheeled the comfortable li- 
brary couch closer the grate, lowered the window shades and 
left Miss Bellmont to take a much-needed rest. 


187 


CHAPTER XII. 


Mr. Everett had so far clung to his resolution not to drink. 
Knowing that his only safety lay in not tasting liquor he had 
avoided Mr. Bunn’s and refused every offer of treats and 
declined all invitations to take social glasses with friends 
often calling down upon himself the ridicule of bystanders. 

A few there were who sympathized with him and tried to 
encourage him. Among these were Tom Long and Jack 
Winters. 

“You jist stick to it Dan an’ never tech another drop. 
It’ll get so after while ’twon’t be so hard. I know how it 
goes. I had to bring myself up short once to keep out o’ 
a drunkard’s grave. Whenever yer tempted ter drink jist 
think o ’ poor Carl Newman. ’ ’ 

“That’s true as preachin, what Long told you,” said Jack 
Winters. The miners were coming home from work and 
some of them as usual had stopped at Bunn’s. Tom Long 
was crossing the street and heard the laugh that followed 
Mr. Everett’s refusal to stop ; called forth. He slackened his 
speed until the crowd had entered the saloon and had then 
spoken to Mr. Everett. Jack was standing in the door of his 
restaurant and heard his remarks. 

“You just let the fools laugh if they want to,” he con- 
tinued. ‘ ‘ Some of ’em like myself only envy you your pluck 
in tryin’ to stop while the rest ain’t got sense enough to 
want to quit. You jist stick to it an’ let the stuff alone.” 
And Mr. Everett had done so as before stated until Christ- 
mas and the holidays came and a thoughtless fun loving 
cousin of his came from the city to visit him. He was much 
surprised when Mr. Everett refused to stop at Bunn’s one 
evening for a drink. 

“Ain’t joined the church have you?” he asked. 


188 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


“No,” replied Mr. Everett, who disliked owing that he 
was so weak he could not take a social glass as some men 
did, and quit at that. 

“What, then?” persisted the cousin. 

“Oh, it costs too much, and since I’ve bought our little 
home I save every dime I can to pay on it.” And Mr. Ev- 
erett walked on by the saloon. 

His cousin said no more, but since he had been the one to 
offer the treat, he could not see Dan’s reason for refusing 
to drink it. 

“Maybe though he thought I’d expect him to pay back, 
but I didn’t. I know what I’ll do though. I know Dan 
likes a dram as well as anybody and as we’re going hunting 
tomorrow I’ll lay in a supply o’ the best Bunn’s got and it 
won ’t cost Dan a cent. ’ ’ And thinking to surprise and please 
his friend he secretly made his purchase and kept it hidden 
until near the end of the day’s sport when they were both 
tired and cold and had paused on the sunny side of a hill 
to arrange their game, preparatory to the three-mile tramp 
across the plain to town, when taking a flask from his 
pocket he said : 

“Here, Dan, is something to keep us warm on our way 
back home. We won’t feel that biting wind so and if you’re 
afraid Mollie’ll smell your breath I’ve got some killers here 
you can use. ’ ’ 

Mr. Everett’s first thought was to refuse. 

“ I ’ve quit drinkin ’ I told you, ’ ’ he said. 

“Of course you have. So have I. That is I don’t get 
drunk, but where’s the harm in takin’ a dram in a case like 
this; Christmas times, too. I never thought you ’d be such 
a Miss Prim, Dan,” said the cousin in a disappointed voice 
as he prepared to return the flask to his pocket. 

Mr. Everett began to weaken when it came over him that 
his cousin had prepared this little treat to please him. He 
hated to disappoint him and perhaps after all he had done 
without so long that it did not have the hold on him it once 
had. So he allowed himself to think and said : 


189 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Well, give it here then. I’ll drink with you this once, 
since you’re going away tomorrow. But you needn’t mind 
the killers. Whatever else I do I never lie to my wife.” 

“Lucky woman, she; and here’s to her health,” replied 
his friend, passing one flask to him while he uncorked an- 
other for himself. Before the homeward journey was half 
over Mr. Everett ’s flask was empty and turning to his cousin 
he said: 

‘ ‘ Say, coz ; that stuff is good. Bunn must ’a spread hisself 
cause ’twas Christmas. If you’ve got more’n you want, you 
can divide up an’ I’ll make it all O.K. when we git to Bunn’s. 
It takes a good deal to make a taste for me.” 

His cousin passed him his flask, saying ; 

“It’s alright anyway. I got it for you and I don’t want 
no pay back. But I wouldn’t drink much more now if I 
was you. It’ll keep till tomorrow.” 

Useless advice! Mr. Everett emptied the second flask 
and when they came to Mr. Bunn’s insisted upon stopping 
for more. 

Too late, his cousin realized what a drink of whisky meant 
to Mr. Everett, and he greatly deplored his so-called friend- 
liness. 

‘ ‘ Better come on home now, Dan, ’ ’ he said as Mr. Everett ’s 
hand was on the door knob of the saloon. “We’ll want to 
get some o’ this game ready for supper; besides you’ve had 
a plenty today I’m thinkin’. They ain’t no sense in a man 
makin’ a beast o’ hisself. I wouldn’t a got the stuff if I’d 
a thought about you bein’ such a dunce. Come on now.” 

“No, I’m goin’ in,” was the reply. “Think I’m drunk? 
Guess I know when I’ve got enough,” and Mr. Everett 
pushed on into the saloon where he was greeted boister- 
ously — 

“Hello 1 The prodigal returned 1 ’ ’ shouted Bunn, who was 
in an unusually good humor from the fact that he was mak- 
ing an unusual amount of money; and no doubt thinking 
the time was near when he could go out of business and be a 
Christian he bethought him to begin to practice quoting 
scripture. 


190 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


‘‘Walk right up old friend and have something for your 
stomach’s sake,” as the Bible commands. 

The majority of the bystanders laughed at this silly speech 
but one there was who shot Bunn an angry, contemptuous 
glance and said: 

“Bah! Za Bunn, cuss words ’d sound better from you 
than scripture quotin’. The Bible says, ‘Wo unto him that 
giveth his neighbor strong drink,’ too. Za Bunn, where’s 
my boy ? ” he continued more fiercely than before. 

Mr. Bunn was a little taken aback by this rough speech but 
nothing could long dampen his exuberant spirit. Was he 
not making more money than any one else in town? and 
could not money do everything ? So mustering an indulgent 
smile he said: 

“Oh, now friend Hobkins. You don’t mean all that. I 
can’t really see as I’m to blame about your boy. I done all 
I could to keep him away from McGregor’s. But go he 
would. Strange what low tastes some folks can get, but I 
can’t help it.” And Mr. Bunn heaved a sigh of patient 
resignation. “The idea of folks preferin’ a place like Mc- 
Gregor ’s to a respectable drinking establishment like mine. ’ ’ 

The irate Hobkins looked ready to throttle him, but 
smothered his anger somewhat and replied with withering 
sarcasm : 

“My boy never had sich low tastes till he begun cornin’ 
to your respectable drinkin’ establishment. An’ what’s 
more he wouldn’t a begun cornin’ here if you hadn’t a per- 
suaded him to come an’ play his fiute an took to payin’ him 
in drinks. In my opinion Mack’s a better man than you 
cause he’s plain out what he is an’ don’t sneak behind the 
Bible an’ quote scripture to back up his meanness, but if 
the devil don’t have an oncommon warm place for both 
of you he ain’t next his job, that’s all.” And Hobkins 
stalked from the saloon and crossed to McGregor’s in search 
of his boy. And there he found him in a company of drunk- 
en revelers playing cards, gambling, and singing coarse, 
vulgar songs. 

With difficulty he induced him to leave the saloon and go 

191 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

home with him, and once outside the accursed place the 
father tried earnestly to show his son that he was ruining 
his own life, breaking his mother’s heart and bringing his 
grey hairs in sorrow to the grave. 

And yet that father is doing absolutely nothing toward 
breaking up a business that is ruining thousands of boys as 
dear to some one as his own boy is to him. 

Mr. Everett, after having his flask fllled, started toward 
home again with his cousin, but as they came in sight of 
the house he stopped short and said : 

“No; I won’t go home. Mollie’ll turn so white an’ Ada ’ll 
look at me with them big eyes o’ her’s like I’d killed some- 
body. I’m goin’ back to Bunn’s.” 

“No you’re not,” replied his cousin, firmly. “You’re go- 
ing on home with me.” He deeply regretted having induced 
his cousin to drink, but eased his conscience by thinking that 
it was Christmas times and this would be only a Christmas 
spree. Once get him home and in bed he would sleep it off 
and be none the worse for it. 

“Come on, I say,” he continued as Mr. Everett still per- 
sisted in returning. “I’ll tell Mollie ’twas my fault and a 
new dress will make peace with Ada ’s eyes, I reckon. ’ ’ 

And with much coaxing he succeeded in getting Mr. Ever- 
ett to his home. 

Mrs. Everett’s face turned fully as white as her husband 
had expected, nor did it grow any the less so when his cousin 
called her to one side and attempted to explain. All ex- 
planations froze on his lips when he once looked into the 
wife’s face and saw the pain there. 

Ada’s eyes, too, looked grief and reproach at both men, 
though her lips spoke no word and looking into their accus- 
ing depths the cousin realized that no present of his could 
heal the wounds he had so thoughtlessly inflicted Consult- 
ing his watch he found he had time to catch a train for the 
city and decided to do so that night instead of waiting until 
morning as he had intended — and hastily packing his valise 
he departed, Mr. Everett going with him to the train. 


192 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


Both men had eaten a hasty supper and the cousin had 
tried to induce Mr. Everett to go to bed, but he would not, 
and again thinking it would prove only a Christmas spree 
after all, his cousin said no more and walked to the train in 
silence. 

“O! I wish he hadn’t come,” said Ada as soon as they 
were out of hearing, and her mother heartily echoed the 
wish, though she said : 

“Never mind, Ada. Maybe your father won’t stay drunk 
long this time. His cousin did not think, I suppose.” And 
as Ada began to sob she continued : 

‘ ‘ Maybe I can get something to do again and you can help 
Saturdays and before and after school and we won’t have 
to let our home go back. It’s nearly half paid for and I 
was counting on moving into it by spring. We lived here 
this winter you know because our place rents for so much 
more than this. I thought we could put up with it this win- 
ter. It’ll be so nice; having a home again,” The mother 
talked on, hoping to comfort her child, but her own hean 
misgave her sadly. She turned almost faint as the proba 
bility of loosing' the home she had begun to look upon as 
hers. But she would not think of it ; not yet. 

“You and the children have clothes enough for the winter 
and the coal house is nearly full,” she said as Ada still 
sobbed. “I think we can manage without giving up our 
home. Of course ’twon’t really be ours till it is paid for 
but we could do that easy in a year if — we could go on as 
we have been.” The mother spoke of what she supposed 
was nearest her child’s heart and was rather surprised by 
her reply. 

“But, mamma, I wasn’t thinking of that: I’d love to live 
there and have a home as you say, but I was thinking of 
papa: if he keeps on what will become of him? You know 
what he said about Mr. Newman. He said he could just feel 
all over as he watched him, that he was going to torment. 
And if papa keeps on won’t he go too? I’d be glad to live 
here always and do without everything if only he could 

193 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


quit drinking and be a Christian. We’d all have a home 
together after while then. ’ ’ 

The mother’s tears were falling too now. How often had 
she thought and hoped and prayed over these same things, 
seemingly all to no avail. 

“We can only pray, Ada, and trust in Him who hears the 
cry of the distressed,” she replied presently, wiping her 
eyes as the boys came crowding around her scarcely under- 
standing what, yet knowing something was wrong. 

“Mamma, is papa drunk? Did he go back to Mr. 
Bunn’s?” asked James, the oldest lad. 

“No, child. God knows. I hope not,” she replied as it 
came upon her for the first time that that was most likely 
what he had done. 

‘ ‘ But it is time you were in bed. ’ ’ And while Ada finished 
the dishes the mother put the younger children to bed. 

When they were snugly tucked in and the dishes disposed 
of Mrs. Everett and Ada seated themselves by the fire, the 
one to sew and the other to prepare her lessons for the mor- 
row. Ada took up her book but was unable to keep her 
mind upon it any length of time. Her thoughts would go 
wandering after her father and she wondered how her 
mother could work on so steadily while he was in such dan- 
ger. She could not understand how one can become so ac- 
customed to disappointment and grief as to be able to go 
about apparently indifferent to it: to go through the daily 
routine of working, eating, sleeping, bearing sorrows in 
silence as a matter of course and expecting little else. 

“Mother,” said Ada, at last. “Let me sew, I can’t study 
tonight. ’ ’ And possessing herself of a needle she took up a 
garment to mend. 

“When do you think papa’ll come back?” 

“How can I tell, child? Maybe tonight. Maybe not un- 
till morning. But you had best go to bed too, I can finish 
this mending.” 

“No, let me stay up, mamma. I couldn’t sleep anyway. 
Mamma, do you believe God answers prayers ? ’ ’ 

194 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Certainly, Ada; if it is best they should be answered.” 

“Well, I’ve prayed so much for papa: for God to make 
him quit drinking you know and it don’t seem like my pray- 
ers are answered.” 

“Well, Ada, I’ve prayed for the same thing nearly ten 
years, yet I do not doubt God’s promise to answer prayer. 
Sometimes I feel very sad and downhearted, but it is com- 
forting to know we have a kind Father who will give us 
what is best for us. Come now, we will go to bed.” 

“Let’s read the eighth chapter of Romans tonight, 
mamma,” said Ada, bringing the little Bible. 

After reading and prayer both mother and daughter re- 
tired for the night. Not both to sleep, however. Ada, de- 
spite her declaration that she could not sleep, was soon 
sleeping soundly, and it was the mother who remained 
awake. She had retired solely for the purpose of quieting 
Ada, knowing well that her own eyes would be sleepless that 
night. 

She had tried to keep the brightest side of their often 
clouded life before her daughter, whom she knew was grow- 
ing old before her time. She was anxious and grieved for 
her husband for his own sake, but since Ada had grown to 
take his drinking so to heart, she was more grieved that her 
young life should be clouded by anxiety for her father. 

Ada was so sensitive, every one said, and took everything 
so to heart: she was not like other children. And this was 
true: she believed with all her heart that unless her father 
repented of his sins, and turned from them he would be 
doomed to eternal punishment, and read her Bible and try 
as she would she could see no other end for him. 

To be sure if Ada could have consulted some of our 
learned critics of today she might have derived much con- 
solation from them. She would have doubtless learned that 
her father might live any life he pleased in this world and 
repent and be saved in the next. But only having her Bible, 
poor child, she found no such consolation. Hence her great 
anxiety. 


195 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


Mrs. Everett understood her child’s feelings perfectly and 
her own anxiety was increased in that it affected Ada. 

Then, too, she must think of the results temporarily. If 
her husband continued drinking she must try to get work 
to support her children. She knew from past experience 
that if he gave full rein to his appetite it would take all he 
was making to keep him in drink even if he worked all the 
time. Perhaps she could get the washings again that she 
did through the summer, but her heart turned faint at the 
remembrance of the headaches and backaches that always 
followed a day’s washing. Yet there was little else to do. 
The women of Rosedale mostly did their own sewing and 
the one seamstress, that had only been there a year, barely 
made a living. Still, dark as the prospect looked, she tried 
to find a bright side to it. The children were very well sup- 
plied with clothes and there was enough fuel to last through 
the winter, provided it was not too long and severe; for the 
rest she had learned to manage with such a little ; surely she 
could earn that little. So thinking and planning she lay 
awake until past midnight. 

Borrowing trouble you would say? No. For she knew 
that her husband had with him every cent they had in the 
world, except what they had paid on their home, and the 
chances were it would all go in one night and if he continued 
drinking they would have nothing to live on unless she 
earned it and she was only trying to be prepared to meet 
what she felt must come. 

And come it did. Mr. Everett did not return until dawn 
and then it was with an empty purse. He entered the 
kitchen where his wife was preparing the morning meal and 
tossing the purse upon the table said : 

“Don’t see what the deuce went with all the money. 
Know I didn’t drink so much, but it’s gone and no use to 
worry. ’ ’ 

“No, we won’t worry, Dan; we won’t be long making it 
back. The place is nearly half paid for you know, and 
work’s likely to be good ’till May. We can have the place 
paid for and be living at home by then.” 

196 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Hem/’ said Mr. Everett. “Don’t know, Mollie, I’ve 
been thinkin’ we oughtn’t have gone in debt so. Most o’ 
the miners rents. Better live while we do live and not be 
skimpin’ ourselves to lay up and — ” Here Mr. Everett took 
a bottle from his pocket and took a long draught of its 
contents which seemed to increase his courage wonderfully, 
for where before he had been speaking hesitatingly and 
avoiding his wife’s searching eyes, he now looked boldly at 
her and continued, “And in short, Mollie, I just went ’round 
this morning and told Bennet he might have the place back 
if he’d pay me what I’d paid him on it and he was glad 
to do it, too. He’s goin’ to pay me this evening and you 
can have half the money to do as you please with. You can 
get that carpet and lounge you done without last fall so as 
to pay the money on the place.” 

“But, Dan, I don’t want the place to go back,” protested 
Mrs. Everett. “I’d rather do without everything till it’s 
paid for : then we ’d have a home and wouldn’t have to move 
or pay rent. Don’t do it Dan. Mr. Bennett won’t mind and 
we can pay for it easy in a year. ’ ’ 

Mr. Everett took another drink from the bottle before he 
replied : 

“Well, it’s goin’ back anyway. I told Bennett he could 
have it an’ I won’t go back on it. It costs a sight to keep 
up a place: taxes an’ everything. A poor man never has 
nothin’ but a livin’ anyway an’ had just as well live while 
he does live.” 

“But what of him when he dies, Dan? If he spends his 
time and money to indulge his brutish appetites what be- 
comes of his soul?” asked Mrs. Everett, stung to despera- 
tion at the prospect of the weary life that seemed to unroll 
before her as her husband spoke. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied he. “There is people that 
don’t believe in a hereafter an’ there’s others that thinks 
there’ll be plenty o’ time to repent in the next world.” 

“Yes, Dan. I’ve no doubt there’ll be plenty of time in 
the next world to repent: a whole eternity: but it vsdll be 
too late then to do you any good. Now is the only time we 

197 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


have to be saved and if we slight God and our duties and 
live wicked in this world weVe no right to expect Him to 
save us in the next and people that teaches such things are 
either adding to or taking from God’s word for there is no 
such hopes given in the Bible.” 

Mr. Everett looked vexed and ate his breakfast in silence 
and left the house. 

Mrs. Everett shed a few bitter tears of disappointment as 
she went about her morning work. The children were yet 
asleep and need not know of their loss for a few days. Each 
child was deeply interested in the new home and had talked 
and planned how they would live and what they would do 
when they came to occupy it. There were only four rooms, 
a pantry, veranda and back porch but the house seemed a 
mansion to them beside the two small rooms where they now 
lived and each child had been promised a corner or closet 
of its very own and the most minute arrangements had been 
discussed at length and as the mother remembered this she 
felt the disappointment for her children more than for her- 
self. 

When the children awoke she prepared their breakfast, 
avoiding Ada’s questioning eyes. After the children had 
eaten she threw a shawl over her head and went to see three 
of the women for whom she had formerly worked and they 
were only too glad to get her to work for them again and 
one of them said : 

^‘La, now I’m so glad to have you wash for me again. My 
clothes are most ruined going from one place to another, but 
I thought you ’d quit washing.” 

“I have decided to try it again,” replied Mrs. Everett, 
knowing that the whole wretched trouble would soon be 
known to every one, but resolved no one should learn it from 
her. 

She had all the work she could do and if she only stayed 
able to do it she would not complain. She never received 
one cent that had been returned to Mr. Everett for their 
home nor had she expected it. She tried hard not to worry 
and to console Ada with the thought that when father did 

198 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


“sober up” he might not again be led to drink. She told 
Ada of the loss of the property and together they planned to 
keep it from the boys as long as possible. 

For the first few weeks Mrs. Everett bore the extra work 
well, then it seemed to her she could never get rested but 
she struggled on through February washing by day and 
ironing and mending by night until near the middle of 
March. 

There came an unusually cold wave, a cutting wind with 
snow, but the work must be done: her children must have 
bread. A washing was promised for that day and the water 
had to be carried some distance. Before this was done Mrs. 
Everett was chilled through but finished her work. Ada, 
noticing how pale her mother looked at noon, insisted upon 
remaining at home in the afternoon to help. 

Near midnight Mrs. Everett awoke with a chill. At day 
break she tried to arise but her head seemed bursting and 
she was forced to fall back on her pillow. Calling Ada she 
told her to prepare breakfast for the children. 

Ada was alarmed at her mother ^s illness and would not be 
persuaded that it was only a “light headache” that would 
soon go away, as her mother tried to make her believe. 

She knew that no light headache would keep her mother 
in bed and child though she was she had also noticed with 
sinking heart how pale and thin her mother had grown in 
the last two months. 

She hastily prepared the breakfast and then got the two 
oldest ready for school. 

Mr. Everett had not come home during the night. He 
avoided home now as much as possible. When he was sober 
enough to think at all he saw what a cowardly act he had 
done in depriving his family of their home and leaving his 
wife to provide for them as he did. He had really meant 
to give her part of the money but after he had received he 
had walked toward home via Mr. Bunn’s: had stopped to 
have a glass and chat; was persuaded to play a little; just 
enough to allow one or two sharpers present to secure all 
his money, then he was ashamed to go home and stayed on 

199 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


drinking more heavily and becoming more of a beast all 
the time. Since then he had worked just enough to keep 
himself in drink and spent the rest of his time at Bunn’s, 
while his wife was working her life away to earn, bread for 
his children. 

Mrs. Everett grew rapidly worse until noon. Ada had 
begged to go for the physician but the mother would not 
consent. She might feel better presently and she could ill 
afford to incur needless expense. But at noon she reluct- 
antly gave Ada leave to go, and running across the street 
to ask Mrs. Brown to stay with her mother Ada was greeted 
with : 

“La, now, I jist knowed it would come to that. Yes, run 
along honey. ITl go right oft'.” And throwing a shawl over 
her head she hurried across the street. 

“In bed are you? I was afraid of it when I saw you out 
in that wind yesterday. Let me fix a cloth for your head.” 
And the good woman busied herself trying to make her suf- 
fering neighbor more comfortable. 

The physician came, pronounced it a serious attack of 
pneumonia, left medicines and directions and went away, 
promising to call again next day. 

But instead of getting better Mrs. Everett grew steadily 
worse. She could eat nothing and was troubled with a dis- 
tressing cough that the medicine did not relieve. 

Mr. Everett came home the second night of his wife’s ilL 
ness and the next day went to work in earnest. His Christ- 
mas spree had cost him dear, thus far, and was likely to 
prove dearer still. 

It had been Jack Winters who had told him of his wife’s 
illness. Ada had sent James there for bread and noticing the 
child’s sober face. Jack had questioned him closely and finally 
learned of the mother’s illness. He already knew of the 
father’s drunkenness and pressing a sack of lemons and 
oranges on the child he went in to Mr. Bunn’s to look for 
Mr. Everett. And there he found him laughing and jesting 
with his coarse companions. Jack called him out and asked : 

200 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


‘'Dan Everett, do you know your wife’s sick and your 
family nothing hardly to live on ’ 

Mr. Everett turned pal^^ but was inclined to resent Jack’s 
speech. 

“No, I didn’t know Mollie was sick, an’ it ain’t so, about 
them having nothing to live on. They’ve got plenty.” 

“And how do they get it if I might ask?” continued Jack 
mercilessly. “I can see how your money’s been goin’ the 
last two months. Mebbe you think ’tain’t none o’ my busi- 
ness an’ I know I ain’t much better myself, but it does seem 
to me if I had a wife I wouldn ’t lay around and let her work 
herself to death to make a livin’ for my children, an’ that’s 
what your wife’s been doin’, if reports is anyways near 
right.” 

It proved just the right tonic for Mr. Everett and he went 
home that night, and went to work as before stated. The 
news of his wife’s illness and a cold head bath sobered him 
and the desire for drink left him for the time. 

Ada grew more anxious as the days went by and all the 
physician’s efforts to break the fever or cure the cough 
failed. She watched by the bedside by day and cried her- 
self to sleep at night. She noted her father’s late sobriety 
with thankfulness, yet anxiety for him was for the time over- 
shadowed by grief for her mother. 

Peeling that she must talk with some one, and fearing to 
alarm or excite her mother and not daring to broach the 
subject to her father, she called the boys around her in the 
kitchen one evening after school and said, scarcely above a 
whisper, “Boys, do you know how very sick mamma is? I 
know by the way the doctor looks she’s awful bad off. 
What would we do if she/’d die ? ” 

“Die,” repeated James, in surprise. “You don’t think 
mamma’ll die?” 

“I’m afraid she will, ’ ’ said Ada, steadying her voice with 
difficulty. “She coughs so dreadful and can’t eat and was 
so weak to start on. What will become of us, Jimmie, if 
mother dies and father drinks? I can’t wash yet and you 
can’t work in the bank, and we’ll have nobody at all to care 

201 


IN THE TOILS VF SLAVERY. 


for us.’’ Ada was sobbing now and the tears were running 
down James’ face, while Willie, the next youngest child, 
looked on in wonder, scarcely comprehending the meaning 
of Ada’s words. 

Little Dan hid his face in Ada ’s lap and began to cry for 
his supper and Ada, stifling her own grief, arose to supply 
his wants. She was early learning to suffer in silence. 

‘‘Don’t cry boys. God will take care of us some way. I 
wanted you to know how bad mamma is so you will be care- 
ful not to make a noise to bother her. The doctor said she 
must be kept quiet, and allowed to rest and now we’ll have 
supper, Dannie.” 

This little talk served to make the boys more thoughtful 
and quiet. It also drew them closer to Ada and every time 
they came from school they would ask almost breathlessly 
how mamma was, to be answered invariably, “She isn’t any 
better, I’m afraid,” until one day in the second week of her 
illness Mrs. Everett called Ada and said : 

“Bring the boys and come here. I want to talk to you.” 

And they came, slowly to her bedside and gazed in awe 
and wonder into their mother’s face. 

‘ ‘ Children, mother is going away soon. If it were not for 
you I would be glad, but it grieves me to leave you all alone. 
But trust in God who has promised to befriend the orphan 
and by and by we will meet again where there is no pain 
nor parting. I leave you my Bible Ada: try to live by its 
teachings and teach the boys to do so. My boys! How I 
longed to see you grow to manhood.” And her hands ling- 
ered lovingly on each bowed head. “But that cannot be 
now. Try to grow up honorable and honest men; be good 
boys and help Ada all you can and above all, boys, never 
taste strong drink. Shun it as you would poison, for so it 
is. And Ada, pray — pray for father — always.” 

Her voice died away in a whisper and Ada coaxed the 
weeping children to the kitchen lest her mother should be 
too much exhausted by the interview. 

202 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


Mrs. Everett lingered three days after this and then one 
night when they thought her resting better than usual she 
quietly crossed the dark, silent river without pain or 
struggle — 

And stepped upon the golden shore, 

Where pain and sorrow are no more ; 

Where tears are wiped from weary eyes, 

Where hushed are sobs and stilled are sighs. 


203 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Mr. Everett seemed stunned when told his wife was dead. 
He had studiously avoided her bedside fearful that she 
should wish to talk with him: beg him to give up drinking 
or something of the sort, and he had a horror of scenes, be- 
sides he did not really believe she would die. It would be 
too awful. He would feel like a murderer if she did, for he 
knew Jack had but spoken truly, if rather abruptly, and that 
his wife had been working herself to death while he had 
been spending his money foolishly, criminally. And now 
that she was really dead something kept saying over and 
over, “You have killed her. You have killed her. Until he 
felt almost desperate and he sat silent and motionless while 
ready hands prepared the body for burial and kind voices 
sought to console his weeping children. 

Occasionally Mrs. Brown spoke some word to him but if 
he heard he heeded not. He heard scarcely a word of the 
simple funeral service that was conducted by John Reyn- 
olds at the house and in silence followed the remains to the 
burying ground. 

John walked back with him alone and did his best to com- 
fort him but he answered scarcely a word. His ears seemed 
deaf to all things save the accusing voice within. 

Mrs. Brown remained at the house, put things to rights 
and had suppper on the table when the stricken family re- 
turned, and she remained with them until late, trying in her 
homely way to cheer and comfort and promised as she left 
to look in often and see how they got along. 

The boys went to bed early and Ada brought her mother’s 
Bible and tried to read but could not see for tears. She was 
so lonely. Her father sat so silent and gloomy with his head 
buried in his hands. She longed to comfort him, yet feared 

204 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


to speak to him least he would be angry. At last she arose 
and silently pressed the little Bible into his hands and fled 
to her bed. She lay trembling a moment beside little Dan 
and then quietly wept herself to sleep. 

Mr. Everett arose at length and paced slowly back and 
forth in the firelight. His face looked drawn and haggard. 
The blinds had not been closed nor the lamp lighted and as 
Mr. Everett walked back and forth he could plainly see the 
light from Mr. Bunn’s saloon, although it was two squares 
farther up the street. They were having a good time it 
seemed. He could hear the sound of the violin as the door 
opened occasionally either to admit a new arrival or to allow 
some one to pass out. A thousand demons seemed beckoning 
him on and his eyes turned more eagerly each time as he 
passed the window. Why should he not go? What was 
there left for him except to drink — drink and forget? Un- 
til death came? Then what? He would not think further. 
His hand was upon the doorknob when little Dan moved and 
called ' ‘ Mamma ! Mamma ! ’ ’ 

Mr. Everett’s hand fell away from the door and a cold 
sweat stood on his brow. What was it he was about to do? 
Leave his motherless children, on this, the first night of 
their loneliness while he made a worse brute of himself than 
he was? No! Slave to drink as he was he could not do 
that. But, Oh, God, how could he rid himself of this dread- 
ful burden that seemed crushing him to the earth ! How re- 
sist the longing for drink and forgetfulness? He wished 
now he had talked with Mollie and asked her to forgive him 
instead of avoiding her as he had done. He believed he 
would have felt better. 

Seating himself again he took up the Bible that had fallen 
to the floor and began idly turning the leaves without any 
idea what he wished to read or where to look for anything 
to help him. It was all about “repentance” and “faith” 
and things he could not understand and he tossed it aside 
presently and arose again and began pacing the floor as be- 
fore, growing more desperate each moment. What was the 
use of his living any longer? His children would be better 

205 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


cared for without him and even if death ended in eternal 
punishment it could be no worse than this. 

He paused before a chest of drawers and opening one he 
took therefrom a revolver. He examined it closely. Yes, 
he believed it would shoot, though it had lain there so long. 
He had often wished to carry it with him but she had begged 
him so not to do that he had always yielded. Why not end 
his wretched life? He felt that he could not quit drinking. 
Had he not tried time and again only to fail ? Why struggle 
against fate longer? “But it is cowardly to take your own 
life,” said his conscience. 

“What if it is? Has not my -vyhole life been filled with 
cowardly acts? This would be but a fitting end to it all.” 

He had been fingering the weapon restlessly while he 
thought but presently placed it back in the drawer and 
turned away. He could not take his own life, miserable and 
useless as he felt it to be. 

Seating himself again in the chair he covered his face with 
his hands and began to weep and sob as only a strong man 
can. Tears of bitterest grief and repentance they were. 

‘ ‘ Oh, God, what shall I do ? How rid myself of this awful 
burden?” He kept repeating neither realizing that he was 
praying nor expecting an answer to his prayer. 

Ada was awakened by her father’s words and grief. She 
was frightened at first. She had never known him to weep 
before. She longed to comfort him, yet feared to anger 
him. Then she heard the words he kept repeating between 
his sobs and silently crept from the bed and was by his side 
in an instant. 

“Papa, oh papa,” was all she could say, and winding her 
arm about his neck she mingled her tears with his. Both 
wept in silence for some moments and then Ada thought to 
comfort him. 

“Papa, mamma is at rest tonight and happy and she 
wouldn’t want us to grieve for her. Do you think she 
would?” 

She could not understand what a load of sin was weigh- 
ing him down but thought his grief was solely for her 

206 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

mother, and though he did not reply she saw his grief was 
less violent. 

“Mamma so wanted you to be a Christian, papa, she told 
me to pray for you always. Papa, don’t you ever pray?” 

‘ ‘ No, Ada ; I can ’t pray. God wouldn ’t hear if I did. I ’ve 
been too wicked,” was the answer. 

“But, papa, God will hear and forgive if you are sorry,” 
said Ada. 

‘ ‘ God knows I ’m sorry, Ada. ’ ’ And again his tears flowed 
freely but he did not sob so as before but wept silently and 
it seemed to him that his grief and sin flowed away with his 
tears. 

“There, I feel better now, Ada.” And then he added 
slowly, wonderingly. “If I could believe it possible that 
God could forgive such a wretch as I, then I would think he 
had forgiven me. But no; it cannot be. It is only because 
I have shed tears. I have felt all the time that if I could 
shed tears I would feel better. ’ ’ 

He arose again and paced the floor. But what a change 
there was in him! His face was still pale but no longer 
wore the hunted, haggard look but instead was calm and 
peaceful. 

“Yes, Ada; I think it must be true that God has forgiven 
me. How good and wonderful He is!” 

“Oh, if mamma could only have lived to see this!” was 
Ada’s first words. “But she will know, and I’m so happy.” 

“If she had lived, Ada, I would doubtless have gone on 
drinking. God knows what is best and what it takes to 
bring a man to his senses, though my soul hardly seems 
worth the price.” 

Ada hardly understood his words and was too happy to 
care. 

“And now you won’t drink any more and will save your 
money and I will keep house and we will all go to church 
and be so happy. I think mamma must know. ’ ’ 

“Yes, Ada, with God’s help I will do my best to make up 
to you children the loss of your mother and perhaps after 
all my life may be good for something.” And he shuddered 

207 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY, 


as he remembered his recent thoughts of suicide. And from 
that night dated Daniel Everett’s Christian life. Tempted 
he might be even unto falling, but though he should fall he 
would not be utterly cast down for by his side evermore 
would walk the blessed Lord, Jesus, his Saviour, Comforter 
and Friend. 

But Daniel Everett was not the only man of Rosedale who 
went on a Christmas spree with disastrous results. 

Joe Allen, a young man barely twenty-one had some way 
imbibed the spirit of the occasion and went on a “tare” just 
to see how it would go. 

He was destined to have his curiosity satisfied. 

He had lived with a half uncle near Rosedale since early 
childhood and had never taken but one or two drinks in his 
life, having been kept close the farm. 

His uncle held some petty office and was frequently away 
from home and the management of the farm had been left 
more and more to Joe. 

This was the first Christmas since he had attained his ma- 
jority and he was resolved to enjoy his freedom to the full, 
and have a jolly time. 

His uncle cared but little for him and had permitted him 
to grow up beneath his roof as a matter of duty: he being 
the only child of his dead half-sister. 

No attention had been given to his training, except as 
pertained to work and at twenty-one he had but few ideas 
of right and wrong and no set principles. 

He looked only a boy, with his smooth face and small 
figure. He went to Bunn’s first, to begin his good time, but 
there being some present whom that worthy wished to im- 
press favorably, he questioned Joe closely about his age. 
This refiection on his manhood insulted Joe and he there- 
after went to McGregor’s. 

He found many boon companions there and drank and 
gambled and had what he termed a “flyin’ time” until one 
day when he had been drinking more than usual and had 
become so absorbed in the games that he could not tear him- 
self away even to go for his dinner. 

208 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


Espying McGregor’s lunch in a basket he resolved to eat 
it as a joke on McGregor. 

That gentleman had also been drinking more than was 
his wont and as he had also been very busy it was long past 
noon ere he bethought him of his lunch. 

He was furious when he discovered his loss and swore he 
would kill the sneak thief who had eaten his dinner. 

Joe Allen was surprised and alarmed at the storm of rage 
his thoughtles act had aroused. He acknowledged the theft 
and offered to pay for the lunch but McGregor’s wrath 
would not be so easily appeased. His revengeful temper 
was augmented by drink and he thrust Joe from the room 
with curses and blows. This angered Joe and he in turn 
swore vengeance and left in search of a weapon. 

No one paid much attention to the disturbance and sup- 
posed the quarrel at an end. They had no idea Allen meant 
to carry out his threat of returning for revenge. It would 
be madness for a boy like him to attack a man of McGreg- 
or’s size and strength. 

But Joe Allen thought only of the blows and curses and 
his rum beclouded mind greatly exaggerated his grievance 
as well as his own strength. 

No one knew where he went or how he procured the knife 
but late that evening word was brought McGregor that Al- 
len was only waiting for his customers to leave to come back 
and settle with him. 

McGregor gave a satisfied chuckle as he watched his last 
customer depart, provided himself with a stout stick or club^ 
closely resembling a baseball bat, secreted himself in the 
shadow of the building and awaited his victim. 

There were several who knew his intentions and Joe Al- 
len’s danger but were too much afraid of McGregor in his 
present mood to attempt to save the foolish boy. McGregor 
was the acknowledged ‘‘bully” of the country ’round and 
most men who knew him avoided crossing or arousing him. 

There were but three men of his acquaintance who would 
have dared face him that night and thwart his plans. They 
were John Reynolds, Tom Long and Jack Winters and 

209 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


neither of these men knew anything of the trouble until it 
was too late to save Joe. 

McGregor had not long to wait for the boy and as he saw 
him coming along in the moonlight he took a firmer grip on 
his club and held his breath lest Joe in passing should dis- 
cover the trap. He allowed Joe to pass, almost brushing 
against him as he did so. Then he emerged from the shadows 
and said with an oath : 

“Here I am, if that’s what you’re lookin’ for,” and as 
the boy turned and faced him he brought the club down 
with terrific force upon his head. 

Joe sank to the ground without a groan and lay there 
motionless. The street was not entirely deserted and sev- 
eral paused to look at the boy as he lay, and then passed 
by on the other side without comment or question, fearing 
either McGregor, who still stood by with his murderous club, 
or a summons to court. 

Tom Long and his clerk were detained at the store that 
night balancing the accounts and summing up the business 
of the year and before retiring had taken some letters to 
the postoffice that were to go on an early train. They had 
seen the blow struck and Joe fall and walked back by the 
saloon to learn what the trouble was. 

“What’s the row,” asked Tom of a man who was hurry- 
ing away. 

Without replying the man paused and several others came 
up as Tom arrived on the scene. 

“What’s the fraction anyhow? I saw Mack hit him, but 
what’s it all about?” persisted Tom, addressing the group 
in general. 

Still no reply. 

Tom turned to McGregor. 

“I say. Mack, what did you do it for? He ain’t nothin’ 
but a kid. What had he done to you? That looked like a 
cowardly lick from where I was.” 

If any one of the bystanders but Tom Long had spoken 
those words they would doubtless have been his last, but 
Tom’s sharp, searching eyes disconcerted him. He also had 

210 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


a wholesome recollection of the almost superhuman strength 
in that one arm, a fact which prompted him to reply some^ 
what civilly : 

‘‘Well, he’s bin’ quarrelin’ ’round here all day. I put 
him out once an’ he threatened to kill me and went away 
and came back with that knife. So I jist let him have it in 
the head.” 

Tom turned his attention to the boy. He first took the 
knife from his hand and then proceeded to examine the 
wound. 

It was a fearful one. The skin was unbroken but from 
the temple to the back of the head there was a swollen ridge 
almost as large as a man’s arm. 

Tom felt for the pulse. It was beating faintly. Tom 
arose. 

“He’s got to be took somewhere and tended to. I believe 
he’ll die any how and if he does Mack, it’ll likely go hard 
with you. You ain’t got license to kill your customers with 
clubs. If you’d only had a little patience now you might 
a had the pleasure of killin’ him like you did Carl Newman 
an’ have been in no danger yourself. At least not in this 
world. As it is you may not get off so easy.” 

“I done it in self-defense,” said McGregor. 

“That’ll be decided later,” retorted Tom. “Has any- 
body here got a conveyance handy? He ought to be took 
home.” 

A spring-wagon was brought and the boy placed therein 
as comfortably as possible with a coat for a pillow and 
Tom’s clerk and two other men started to take him home. 

Tom, worn out with a long, hard day’s work, went back 
to the store and went to bed. 

Arrived at the home of Joe’s uncle one of the young men 
went to the door and knocked and a man came to the door. 

“We’ve brought Joe home, Mr. Green,” said he. “He’s 
real bad hurt.” 

“Been drinkin’, I reckon,” said Mr. Green. 

“I suppose so. He and Mack had some trouble and Mack 
hit him on the head with a club. 


211 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


“Humph. Well, bring him in. I reckon he’ll be alright 
when he sobers up and ’ll maybe have some sense.” 

A pillow was tossed upon the carpet and when the men 
came in with their limp burden Mr. Green continued : 

‘ ‘ Just pile him down there till morning. He ’ll likely sleep 
it off tonight.” 

“But Mr. Long said he ought to have a doctor,” protested 
one young man. ‘ ‘ See here what a place on his head and he 
hasn’t known anything since Mack hit him.” 

“Didn’t know much before either,” was the gruff reply. 
“Or he’d have stayed away from there. No doubt he de- 
served all he got. Much obliged to you bop for bringin’ 
him home. I’ll look after him in the mornin’ if he needs 
doctoring. Good night,” and the “boys” saw nothing left 
for them to do but take the hint and go. Next morning 
when Mr. Green went to call Joe he found him cold and 
stiff in death. If he regretted having left him thus he gave 
no sign. To do him justice he really thought Joe only 
drunk and was angry with him because he had been drink- 
ing more or less all through the holidays. 

The death of the boy caused much comment and many and 
varied were the conjectures and theories concerning it and 
the punishment that would be meted out to McGregor. But 
Joe Allen was buried and weeks passed and McGregor was 
still going about his business unmolested. 

There were many who thought it a shame but felt that 
Mr. Green was the proper one to begin proceedings, but that 
gentleman had an eye to re-election in the spring and 
feared to offend the strong element in Rosedale and vicinity 
that sympathized with McGregor for, wicked man that Mc- 
Gregor was, he had many so-called friends in that rough 
uncultured community, who listened to his advice and fol- 
lowed his instructions and but few would be officials dared 
offend him or his ‘ ‘ gang. ’ ’ 

Finally, however, Mr. Green made the astonishing dis- 
covery that public opinion was setting in against McGregor 
and his gang and the saloons in general and with a keenness 
and foresight that would have been a credit to his political 
brethren in the higher walks of life, he saw fit to cater to 


212 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


public opinion. So McGregor was arrested on the charge 
of murder and brought to trial. 

At first McGregor had no fear: not a doubt but what he 
would be cleared on the plea of self-defense. 

When his case was called his witnesses were there, most 
of them under the influence of liquor, to enable them, no 
doubt, to see clearer and be fearless in speaking the truth. 
As the trial progressed McGregor lost his assurance. 

It was proved that he had threatened to kill Joe : that he 
had deliberately laid his plans, provided himself with a 
weapon, secreted himself and awaited his victim. 

The prosecuting attorney denounced with scathing sar- 
casm the plea of self-defense. 

‘ ‘ Granting for a moment that one man has a right to pro- 
vide another with that which makes him a brute, and then 
kill him for showing his brutality, it is the very acme of 
absurdity to pretend that a man like the defendant could 
not have kept a mere boy like Joe Allen was, from killing 
him with a knife, without hiding in the dark and striking 
the unsuspecting boy down as he did. 

Earlier in the evening the defendant had threatened to 
kill this same boy, beaten him and thrust him from his sa- 
loon. This fact proves the defendant’s superior strength. 
Why, then, when the boy returned with a knife, did he not 
take it from him and bind him, if necessary, until his mind 
was free from rum ? Because there was murder in his heart. 
Nothing else could have prompted the cowardly acts that 
followed. With consummate, devilish cunning he plans to 
take the boy’s life and for what? Simply because the boy 
had eaten his lunch. 

Gentlemen of the jury, you may call this crime by what 
name you will, but in the sight of God it is murder. ’ ’ 

McGregor was visibly alarmed. He had no fear that the 
sentence would be death, but thoughts of perhaps a long 
term of imprisonment filled him with a nameless dread. 

There is nothing a guilty soul so dreads as solitude ; noth- 
ing it so fears to meet alone, as ghosts of its own crimes, and 
as McGregor’s past arose before him he felt that death it- 


213 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


self would be preferable to long years alone with his guilt, 
unable to drown thought in drink and when the sentence of 
fourteen years ^ of imprisonment was pronounced upon him 
he turned pale and trembled with fear. 

His sentence gave general satisfaction; even Tom Long 
said it was better than he expected. 

Whether McGregor will come out of his long confinement 
a better man or only a more hardened criminal remains to 
be seen for punishment never leaves one exactly the same : 
it must either make better or worse. 


214 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Tom Long did his utmost to prevent anyone else obtain- 
ing license in McGregor’s place. He wrote out a protest^ 
signed his own name, and secured enough others to prevent 
Smith, who was the first applicant, from securing liquor 
license. 

Then a man named Downey bought McGregor’s saloon 
and applied for license but took possession and began selling 
liquor before his license was granted, retaining Smith as 
clerk. 

Through the agency of Jack Winters he was fined for 
selling liquor without license. 

Downey in turn accused Jack of keeping liquor in his 
restaurant and selling it on the sly but could not prove that 
it was true. 

Tom Long again started out with his paper, or papers, 
for Mr. Bunn’s license was about to expire and Tom was 
ambitious to make his town “dry.” 

When Downey heard of this he walked up and down in 
front of his saloon and swore if he failed to get license he 
would sell whiskey by the quart on the street corners and 
dared any one to try to prevent him. 

The fight became general and very bitter. 

Messrs. Bunn and Downey, with their respective clerks, 
became intimate friends and the worthy quartet frequently 
assembled in one saloon or the other after business hours 
and talked over their many grievances with the air of 
martyrs: albeit very revengeful and unresigned martyrs at 
times. 

Behold them then late one night seated at a card table in 
the back of Bunn’s saloon, several bottles of choice liquors 
on the table and a glass for each man. 

215 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


The question under discussion was: How to increase 
trade and Bunn was saying : 

“I just keep the best liquors and sell ’em as cheap as I 
can and furnish all the fun and music I can, and try to keep 
down rows. Rows’ll give a liquor house a bad name quick- 
er ’n anything else. Keep your customers quiet till they 
get away from your place of business any way.” 

Downey brought his fist down on the table with an oath 
that set the glasses jingling in astonishment, whether at 
the oath or the force of Downey’s blow, we are not pre- 
pared to say positively, but as these same glasses had served 
at many a like revel and should have been hardened to 
oaths, it was more probably the blow that inspired their 
jingling protest. 

“The best way yet to increase trade is to advertise,” he 
said in a loud voice. 

“Advertise? How do you advertise?” asked Bunn, with 
a nervous glance at his jingling glasses. 

“Ha, ha, ha; ain’t you on to that yet? Well, you are a 
little young in the business, I believe. That accounts for it. 
It’s this way: don’t be afraid to treat once in a while. 
Give away a few drinks once in a while to men who don’t 
come often, specially young men.” The peculiar emphasis 
on the word “young” was accompanied by a sly wink. 

“Oh, I see,” said Bunn, in smiling approval. “You mean 
to put up treats now and then for the boys and they will 
likely make paying customers in time.” 

“Not so plain or loud, friend Bunn,” replied Downey, 
glancing around nervously. “But that is what I mean. 
Give ’em a taste now and then, and let ’em learn how good 
it is, and you’ll never want for customers; only of course 
you’ve got to be careful an’ use a little judgment about 
who you give it to an ’ who knows it. ’ ’ 

“Humph,” grunted Stubbs, “I’d like to see yOu keep any 
business secrets here. That Jack Winters ’ll find out every 
thing that goes on; watches around like a paid detective. 
Sometimes I think he is one and is only waitin’ a good 
chance to have us all jerked.” 

“Oh, pshaw, Stubbs, Jack ain’t no detective,” said Bunn. 

216 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


'‘And lie’s a good customer, too. Still he is troublesome at 
times as you have already learned, Mr. Downey.” 

“Yes, and I think it’s a shame. Any other business men 
can do about as they please. Cheat, lie, sell on Sunday or 
any other day and to any body they please. Fancy a gro- 
ceryman not being allowed to sell to any one under twenty- 
one for fear he might learn to eat! And don’t people want 
to drink as well as eat? All we want is to be let alone to 
run our own business. It’s jist as lawful as anybody’s an’ 
as we have to pay fer the right o’ runnin’ our business, I 
say we ought to be allowed to run it our own way, and I 
for one aim to run it my way an’ if this Jack Winters 
don’t mind his own business he’ll come up missin’ some fine 
day,” 

“That’s me,” agreed Stubbs. “I’m achin’ fer a chance 
to keel him up. I could do it with a good stomach.” 

“Always providin’ you don’t get keeled yourself,” 
laughed Bunn, striving to treat Stubb’s words as a joke. 

“I mean it; I tell ye I hate that cuss and some day I 
mean to stop his spyin’ ’round here. Ever hear, Mr. 
Downey, o’ the trick he played Mr. Bunn an’ me last fall?” 

Downey replied that he had not and Stubbs gave him an 
exaggerated account of the day Jack so unceremoniously 
took possession of Bunn’s saloon. 

Bunn laughed. 

“Now, Stubbs, I think you an’ Jacks about even. You 
knocked him down before, if you remember, an’ he only 
made you sing. It didn’t hurt you none, an’ you’d best not 
kick up any more musses. ’ ’ 

“I can’t git over sich insults as easy as you kin,” growled 

Stubbs, “an’ I won’t till ” And Stubbs clinched his fist 

and gave a suggestive blow in the air. 

“I’m with you,” said Smith. “He accused me and poor 
old Mack o’ druggin’ and robbin’ a rich cattle man last 
fall. He said, too, that we gave Carl Newman whisky 
when he asked for beer and got him to drinkin’ just before 
he had the spell that killed him. Seems to me I ought to 
pay Jack off some time for me and Mack both. ’ ’ 

217 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


“Strange how we liquor dealers do git slandered,” mused 
Bunn, heaving a sigh. 

“Yes,” agreed Downey. “A man like Winters is really 
dangerous to us, an’ we’d only be actin’ in self defense if 
we managed to get rid of him, an’ it looks as if all of us to- 
gether ought to be a match for ’im. ’ ’ 

“You’ll have to be smarter ’n Mack if you do. He alters 
carries a gun and he’s got eyes all around his head and he 
won’t drink nothin’ he don’t see fixed hisself,” said Smith. 

“Well, I’ll find some way, see if I don’t said Downey. 

“I’ll fix him a drink when he ain’t watchin’ ’er By 

the Lord what’s that?” 

Downey sprang from the table and clutched the back of 
his chair. The other gentlemen followed his example and 
all stood staring with blanched faces and raising hair at 
a window near them. 

The blind had been violently jerked from its hangings 
and the window itself was raised a few inches from the 
bottom, and just outside the window there was plainly 
visible the most horrible face and form that ever startled 
human gaze. 

Mr. Bunn took refuge on the table while Downey and 
Smith fiew to the further corner of the room. Stubbs stood 
transfixed, unable to move or speak. 

A hollow, unearthly laugh fioated in and filled the room. 
Then the ghost vanished. 

Stubbs was the first to recover his equilibrium. 

“Jack Winters by all the gods!” he muttered, between 
his still chattering teeth. “And he’s heard all we’ve said.” 

Mr. Bunn courageously descended from the table, but 
sank into a chair as his legs were trembling violently. 

“No, Stubbs,” he said, “ ’twasn’t Jack. Nothin’ hu- 
man could look and laugh like that. I tell you it’s a spirit 
and a warning to us. I’m goin’ to get out o’ this busi- 
ness the first chance I get to sell out.” 

Downey now came forth with a loud laugh and said: 

“You’re both off. That blind just fell down and we’ve 
imagined the rest. I’ve known of such things before. We’d 
all been drinkin’ considerable and was a mite tipsy. It’s 


218 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


my fault for startin’ it, but come an’ let’s have a drink to 
steady our nerves, then we’ll go to bed an’ sleep it off. 
But don’t forget, gentlemen, the first one that gets a chance 
is to do Jack. The rest of us agrees to stand by him and 
work the self defense racket. And here’s to our luck.” 
And Downey drained his glass and prepared to depart. 

His words somewhat reassured the others, though Stubbs 
was inclined to cling to his own theory. 

“Oh, you’re mistaken, Stubbs,” said Smith. “Jack 
would ’t have dared come here alone and all us four here.” 

“The Dickens, he wouldn’t,” retorted Stubbs. “He could 
’ave licked us all with one hand after that scare. ’ ’ 

“You’re wrong though, Stubbs,” said Bunn. “It must 
be as Mr. Downey says, we just imagined it. It’s a warn- 
ing to us not to drink so much.” And the gentlemen sep- 
arated for the night. All four of them watched Jack nar- 
rowly the next few days, but could detect nothing in his 
manner to indicate that he had any knowledge of their 
ghost, and even Stubbs decided he must have erred in his 
surmises. 

It was nearly two weeks after that eventful night when 
two boys from the country went to Downey’s, and after 
drinking, gambling and drinking again, they went over to 
Jack’s to talk and have supper. Jack being an old ac- 
quaintance. When they were gone Jack sauntered over 
to Downey’s and called for a drink. 

“Good and strong like you just give them boys,” he 
said, with a peculiar emphasis on the “boys.” 

“They ain’t boys, they’re men,” retorted Downey. 

“One’s seventeen and tother’s nineteen, boys or men,” 
replied Jack, coolly. “I worked for their pa cuttin’ timber 
a few years ago when they was kids and know their ages 
to a T. They’ve got a regular old mountain lion for a pa, 
too, and he’ll liven things up for you if he happens to find 
out you’ve been treatin’ his boys an’ learnin’ ’em to gam- 
ble. It’s all very well to treat the boys now and then 
and let ’em learn how good it is, but you’ve got to be care- 
ful and use a little judgment about who you give it to and 
who knows it. ’ ’ 


219 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


And a half taunting, half defying smile shone in Jack’s 
eyes. It required all Downey’s self control to repress a 
start as he heard his own words repeated, and it flashed 
over him that Jack had been the ghost after all, and doubt- 
less had heard all their plans, even the one to kill him. 

His mind worked with lightning-like rapidity. He must 
meet cuoning with cunning and try to catch Jack off his 
guard. He would pretend not to understand his meaning 
and try to convince him that they were all too drunk to 
know what they were saying. It would require skill and 
daring, but something must be done to allay Jack’s sus- 
picions until 

“It’s good advice you’re giving me and I’m much obliged. 
I’m not very well acquainted around here yet and them 
boys looked like men. I ’ll be more careful hereafter. ’ ’ 

Jack was not deceived by this meek reply, but he chose 
to appear so. 

“Yes, they are giants for their age, and I won’t squeal 
on you this time. Just thought I’d drop in and give you 
warning in time.” 

Downey was much pleased by the reply. Perhaps after 
all Jack had not heard all the conversations. 

“In turn for your kindness. I’ll tell you a good joke 
on Bunn and Stubbs and Smith and me. We was all at 
Bunn’s a few nights ago havin’ a jolly time. We was drunk- 
er ’n I generally let myself get, for I can’t remember a 
thing that we done or a word that zms said till the window 
blind fell with a crash and we all jumped like we was shot 
and stared at that window till we imagined we seen a 
ghost. Bunn thought ’twas a warnin’, and said he was 
goin’ out o’ business. But I’d heard of people bein’ drunk 
and imagining things before and I told ’em what it was. 
But the scare sobered us up and spiled our fun.” 

Jack admired Downey’s nerve and skilful lying and re- 
solved to let him play his game through. He was curious 
to learn how far he would go ; whether he would attempt 
to carry out his plans in his present mood or not. If he 
did Jack knew he had only to keep a close watch and 
match Downey’s cunning with coolness. 


220 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


‘‘IVe heard of cases like that before,” Jack replied, 
smiling. “Not a very pleasant experience, I reckon.” 

“You bet not; and now, Mr. Winters, let^s have a drink, 
play a game and bury the hatchet. You’ve had me fined 
and tried to keep me from gittin’ license and I accused 
you of selling whisky, but there ain’t no excuse for us 
bein’ enemies always. You done me a good turn this morn- 
ing and I’m ready to cry quits.” 

“All right,” replied Jack. “A drink and a game it is. 
I never could bear a grudge myself.” 

Downey placed a couple of glasses on the table, and tak- 
ing a bottle of liquor from the cooler, he seated himself at 
the table, and Jack took a seat opposite him. 

Downey uncorked the bottle and poured the contents into 
the glasses. He then pushed one toward Jack and placed 
the other nearer himself. 

With apparent carelessness Jack exchanged the glasses 
and began slowly sipping the one Downey intended for him- 
self. 

It had only been a matter of precaution on Jack’s part. 
He had not seen the few drops of colorless fluid that had 
been placed in one glass before it was put on the table, 
but Downey’s face as he exchanged the glasses told Jack 
he had done well, though he appeared not to notice his 
companion’s discomfiture. 

“This is fine, Downey. Tell you what Bunn ’ll have to 
look out for his laurels if this is a sample of what you 
keep. But you don’t drink with me, my friend. Why this 
sudden coolness? Ain’t sick are you? You do look pale, 
sure,” remarked Jack in mock concern. 

“I — I ain’t feelin’ well this evening,” replied Downey, 
whose face looked ghastly, and he glanced helplessly up 
at Smith, who had been a silent, wondering spectator so 
far. 

Smith took in the situation and thought quickly a mo- 
ment, then stepped to the door and gave a silent signal to 
Stubbs, who had seen Jack go in at Downey’s, and had been 
keeping a sharp lookout for results. But Downey’s ap- 
pealing look and Smith’s movements had not escaped Jack, 

221 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


and while he mentally cursed his stupidity in walking into 
the trap unarmed, he felt no alarm. He had no doubt he 
would be able to reach the restaurant and secure his re- 
volver before danger really came, if it did come. 

He had finished his glass and now arose from the table 
and said calmly: 

“Much obliged, friend Downey. Sorry you wasn’t able 
to enjoy your own glass; mine was splendid. But I must 
be going. Come over some night and we’ll have a blow-out 
at my expense.” 

And he walked toward the door, but Smith blocked the 
doorway with a revolver in his hand, 

“You’ll just stay here. Jack Winters,” said he. “You 
know too much to be running loose. ’ ’ 

Jack surveyed him in calm disdain before he said : 

“Are you and Downey trying to corner all the wisdom 
in the country? Want to shut it all up here and start a 
new trust in time, I reckon. Well, you don’t get mine to 
speculate on. I’m opposed to trusts, so just step aside and 
let me out, wisdom and all.” 

Smith flourished his revolver and refused to move, and 
seeing Stubbs hurrjdng across the street, Jack seized Smith’s 
arm and wrenched the revolver from his hand. He then 
thrust him aside and started for his own place of business. 

Downey now appeared in the doorway, and shouted: 

‘ ‘ Head him off there, Stubbs. Don ’t let him get in there. ’ ’ 

Stubbs drew a revolver, and recrossing the street, placed 
himself between Jack and his restaurant. Jack advanced 
and leveling the revolver, he had taken from Smith, or- 
dered Stubbs to get out of his way. 

Stubbs refused and fired at Jack, who attempted to re- 
turn the compliment, but found to his dismay his own 
weapon was empty. Downey and Smith laughed. 

“You’re a set of damned cowards,” said Jack. “The 
whole pack of you are, but I’ll match you yet.” And he 
turned and started to run around a square, hoping by so 
doing to reach the restaurant by the back door and secure 
his weapon. 

Stubbs fired again as Jack turned and the ball struck 
222 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


Jack’s right arm and broke it, but he ran on, followed now 
by all three men, who fired occasionally as they caught 
sight of their victim, for Jack was dodging behind trees 
and fences as he ran in order to protect himself as much 
as possible. 

One shot clashed through a window, barely missing a 
sleeping babe, and so frightened an old invalid woman, 
that she died next day. But such occurrences are but mere 
incidents of our grand liquor trade, and must be accepted 
as a matter of course. 

Jack succeeded in getting around the block and was 
near his back door when he almost ran against Smith, who 
with Downey had provided himself with effective weapons, 
before joining in the chase, and had cut across lots to in- 
tercept him thus. Turning into an alley Jack sought to 
reach the restaurant again by the front door, but Stubbs 
was now close upon him, and just as he gained the main 
street, and was only a few steps from his own door, a 
shot from Stubb ’s revolver brought him down. 

His fall was greeted with shouts of triumph from his 
pursuers. 

‘‘Well, I guess you’re done runnin’ for a while,” said 
Stubbs. 

“I believe he is really done for,” said Downey, coolly 
turning Jack’s head with his foot. 

“Well, I’m sorry he’s died so quick. Damn his soul, I 
would like to ’a’ had him strung up somewhere and ’a’ 
shot at him all day.” 

So spoke Stubbs in the first fiush of victory, when he 
felt not a little elated at bringing down his man. 

A few moments later, however, when a crowd began to 
gather, and his act was strongly condemned, despite his 
and Downey’s assertion that Jack had been killed in self- 
defense, his assurance began to ebb. 

A physician was called and Jack was pronounced dead, 
but, guarded by two men, he must lie as he had fallen un- 
til the coroner arrived. 

The streets had been unusually deserted at the time of 
the trouble and but one man had seen any part of it. This 

223 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


man was Tom Long’s clerk. 

Mr. Bunn had kept himself in seclusion until it was 
learned that Jack was dead. Then he came out with apolo- 
gies and excuses. 

“It was really too bad. Stubbs oughtn’t have killed 
Jack. He could have got out of his way surely. Jack was 
quarrelsome, but he oughtn’t have been killed.” 

And so on until Stubbs resolved if he had to suffer for 
his crime he would not suffer alone. 

Many were the comments made by the passers-by as Jack 
lay on the ground, awaiting the examination. 

“Jack Winters as I live,” said one. “How did it hap- 
pen ? ’ ’ 

“Him and Stubbs had some trouble,” was the reply. 

“Well Jack was good-hearted. I’ll say that for him.” 
And the man passed on. 

Tom Long and his clerk now arrived and the clerk bent 
over Jack a moment. 

“Poor, old Jack, so he caught you. I was afraid of it 
when I saw you pass the store. ’ ’ 

“Well, if I hadn’t he’d have got me,” said Stubbs, from 
the door of Bunn’s saloon. 

“Yes, we done it in self-defense,” said Downey. 

“Self-defense, the devil!” retorted the clerk. “Didn’t 
I see the whole pack of you runnin’ him down, and him 
with this empty gun and a broken arm ? If Mr. Long hadn ’t 
have been out, I’d have tried to helped him. I would any 
way if I’d have thought you was trying to kill him.” 

“Oh, well, he was a regular tough any way,” observed 
Stubbs. 

‘ ‘ That ’s all true enough, Stubbs, ’ ’ said Tom Long. ‘ ‘Jack 
was rough, but what made him that way? Nothin’ but 
patronizin’ such places as you keep, and you needn’t try 
the self-defense racket. It looks to me like you’d have 
learned a lesson from Mack. And as I told him you ain’t 
got license to kill your customers off with clubs and guns, 
and you don’t need to calcerlate on gettin’ off Scott free.” 

“Well, he’s got a revolver in his hand with every load 
gone,” said Downey. “If that don’t go to show he done 


224 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

some shootin’, I don’t know what would. He came over 
to my place this morning and tried to raise a racket, then 
he came back this evening and begun again. I tried to 
pacify him, but he only got worse, and knocked Smith 
down, and let in to shootin’. Mr. Stubbs heard the racket 
and started over when Jack made a break for home to get 
another gun. If he’d have got it, he’d likely have killed 
us all.” 

“I don’t believe but mighty little o’ that,” said Tom. 
‘‘In the first place if Jack had had a loaded revolver he’d 
have been a match for any six men in the country. He 
never ’d have had to turn and run from two or three. 
What’s more that ain’t Jack’s gun. He only had an old 
thing that was no account, till about a week ago, he had me- 
order him one. He said he had a presentiment he’d need 
one some time. He smiled kind o’ queer like as he said 
it, but I never thought much of it at the time. But that’s 
not the gun I got him. He must have picked it up at your 
place, Downey, or mebbe had it give to him,” Tom added 
significantly. 

“He might ’a’ got it over there,” replied Downey, who 
did not relish Tom’s plain talk. “I didn’t pay much at- 
tention to him till the shooting begun. I’d have let him 
off after he started to run, but Stubbs thought we would- 
n’t be safe.” 

Downey and Smith departed to their own place of busi- 
ness and Stubbs turned back in the saloon again, resolving 
he would not stand alone if the case proved serious. 

But this resolve did not quiet his fears for himself or 
ease his conscience, for wicked man though he was, he still 
had a conscience. Yet he experienced no sincere repent- 
ance; he felt now that if it were to do again he would let 
Jack off with a broken arm, but it was fear of the punish- 
ment and not repentance for the crime that prompted the 
feeling, and so great was this fear that when Jack was 
buried and the preliminary trial had convicted him of man^ 
slaughter and bound him over to court, that he gave up 
his place at Bunn’s and went to work in a saw mill. 

But the reform was only temporary for at his trial two, 

225 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


months later, he was in some mysterious way, cleared of 
the charge, which only served to embolden him. 

He swore vengeance upon the clerk, who had been the 
main witness against him. The clerk had testified that 
Jack had been killed while fleeing for his life, pursued by 
Stubbs, and the latter’s acquittal was a surprise to many. 

Stubbs returned to his old post but, at his own request, 
divided time with the stable boy, and a few weeks later 
while he was driving Tom’s clerk to a neighboring town 
on business, the clerk died in the buggy. Stubbs turned 
and drove back to Rosedale, and after the coroner’s in- 
quest, was arrested, charged with giving the clerk poisoned 
whisky. 

Tom had secured an expert on poisons and was resolved 
to have the best counsel possible, and leave no stone un- 
turned in his efforts to bring Stubbs to suffer for his crime. 

But before the trial took place, Stubbs had gone to give 
an account of his many crimes to the Supreme Judge of all. 

He and a boon companion had quarreled at cards, both 
being intoxicated. The quarrel led to blows and ended in 
Stubbs being cut so badly that he died, after a week’s suf- 
fering, cursing with his last breath. 

Bad man, was he not? Yet with different environments 
he might at least have been a law abiding citizen. While 
we have saloons, saloon keepers, and strong drink to tempt 
men’s appetites and avarice, we will have such men. We 
have many even worse than he, made so by strong drink 
alone. What did you say? Tired of such dreadful tales! 
Well, but if you and I cannot bear to hear of such crime 
and misery, what must it be for those who are obliged to 
suffer from them ? 

And there are crimes resulting from this pernicious liquor 
traffic, beside which the few narrated here sink into in- 
significance. They are hushed up as a rule and kept from 
the general public, for human ear cannot bear to hear nor 
human eye bear to see what some weaker, and it may be 
coarser, humanity must suffer and endure from this same 
liquor trade. 


226 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


And this in free, Christian America, where the voice of 
the people is the law of the land, or at least should be, and 
where law and order are supposed to prevail. 

But we will not tire you further. A few words in clos- 
ing and we are done. 

Paul Rivers was missed from his usual duties one day, 
and after a prolonged search was found in a hollow or 
gulley, near the city limits. 

His head showed many a bruise and his throat and neck 
bore black marks as though from choking. 

No expense was spared to bring his murderers to justice 
and several arrests were made, but no clue could be found 
that would fasten the crime upon any one, and Paul Riv- 
ers’ death is still a mystery and will doubtless remain so 
until that day when the great book is opened and all mys- 
tery cleared away. 

But Paul Rivers’ cloak seemed to have fallen upon Wil- 
liam Bellmont, also a double portion of his anti-liquor traf- 
fic spirit, for a few weeks after Mr. Rivers’ death, he took 
up his work in earnest; and if, as every one believes, Paul 
Rivers was murdered by the keepers of the low dives of the 
city, they have gained nothing by their crime, for with 
youth, strength and almost unlimited wealth at his com- 
mand, William is proving a formidable enemy of the vicious 
and lawless element in that city. 

He had sought an interview with Mr. Rivers a few days 
after the talk with his aunt and a few weeks before Mr. 
Rivers’ death. He had found him busy in his office with 
some half dozen persons in the waiting room. 

William seated himself and proceeded to study his fel- 
low seekers after wisdom, spiritual advice or more mate- 
rial things, as the case might be. 

Three were young men with strong marks of dissipation 
stamped in their faces ; toughs he has rescued and is trying 
to help, was William’s verdict. Two more were middle- 
aged men, smelling strongly of bad whisky, and William 
decided they must be at least first cousins in crime to the 
former three. The sixth was an old man in rags, who 
seemed greatly disturbed, lest some one get his place or 

227 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


in some way deprive him of his interview with Mr. Rivers. 
“I’m third,” he informed William, whom he eyed with sus- 
picion. “There wasn’t but four when I got here an’ two’s 
already gone in. That makes me third now an’ I don’t 
want to be crowded out.” 

“Well, grandad, they ain’t no danger o’ you bein’ crowd- 
ed out here. The president hisself couldn’t git in ahead o’ 
you if he wanted ter. This is one place where money don’t 
count an’ every body’s ekel.” And the speaker cast a 
triumphant glance in William’s direction. 

William smiled, and was proceeding to draw from the old 
man his trouble, when the office door opened and Mr. Rivers 
appeared. 

He looked worn and pale, but greeted William kindly. 

“I have seen you at our church occasionally. Your name 
is Bellmont, I believe.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Very well, I will probably be able to see you in an 
hour.” And he re-entered his office, followed by one of the 
rum-scented gentlemen. 

“He shook hands with us, too, and spoke to us like that 
when we first came in,” said the youth, with the equality 
idea, fearing doubtless that William would think his wel- 
come due to his good clothes or more prepossessing appear- 
ance. But the latter was to much interested in the old 
man ’s story to heed the younger one ’s remarks. 

His story was not so very uncommon, but sorrowful, nev- 
ertheless. He had been living with his daughter, whose 
husband was a drunkard who, two weeks previous, had 
killed his wife, leaving two helpless and destitute babies, 
for of course the father was in prison. 

“I’m tryin’ to get somethin’ to do all the time,” the old 
man added, “but they don’t seem to be no place fur an’ 
old feller like me, an’ I don’t see what’s ter become o’ 
me an’ the little childers. Mr. Rivers’ been helpin’ us some, 
but don’t know how long he can keep it up as he’s got so 
many to see to. He thought he might run across somethin’ 
I could do an’ that’s what I’m in sich a hurry about — 

228 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


there now, it’s my time.” And the old man ambled hastily 
into the office. 

William resolved to look after the old man and his grand- 
children himself or provide Mr. Rivers with the means to 
do so, and wondered how many more there were in the city 
like him and how much it would take to care for them all. 
He also wondered how many people in that city were spend- 
ing enough for things they did not need — nay, for things 
that positively injured them — ^to keep all the helpless of 
the city. He wondered how many women, who called them- 
selves Christians, were idolizing dogs and cats while little 
children were cold and hungry; he wondered — but in the 
meantime the remaining men had passed on and it was 
his turn for an interview with Paul Rivers, and he could 
not down a slight feeling of embarrassment as he followed 
him into the consulting room. 

Mr. Rivers motioned him to a chair and seated himself 
at his desk. 

‘‘Well,” said Mr. Rivers, as William hesitated, “you 
wished to speak with me, I believe.” 

“Yes, but I hardly know how to begin. I thought per- 
haps there might be something I could do to help along the 
work you are doing; I am not one of the busy kind, you 
know, and have time to spare.” 

“You have helped me at different times,” said Mr. Riv- 
ers. 

“Mere trifles; but I do not refer to financial aid; still, 
while we are on the subject, I wish to provide you with the 
means of caring for that old man and his grandchildren,” 
replied William, producing pencil and check book. 

‘ ‘ Ah, he told you his story then. ’ ’ 

“Yes, while we were waiting. Here is something; you 
will know better how to use it than I. ’ ’ And William passed 
a one hundred dollar check to Paul Rivers. 

‘ ‘ Thank you. ’ ’ 

“Yours, and when you need more you are to tell me. 
Now, what I have been trying to get at is some way to help 
our people learn their rights and responsibilities; to teach 
them the things that are sapping their independence and 


229 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


vitality as individuals as well as a nation. I believe, could 
something be done to improve the moral atmosphere of our 
city tenements, many persons, who are now at the mercy 
of charity, would be independent and self-supporting, but of 
course you know all this yourself better than I. ’ ’ 

^‘But I am glad you have discovered it for yourself. 
And you want to do something besides give money?” said 
Paul Rivers, musingly. ‘‘I like that. Money can do much 
good if used wisely, but an honest enthusiastic man can do 
more. Why do you not try politics? We are sadly in need 
of honest officials just now.” 

William made a gesture of impatience. 

“Do not speak to me of polities, please. I have tried 
them and their bare mention conjures up a vision of rum 
and cussedness that is positively nauseating.” 

A smile twinkled in Mr. Rivers’ eyes a moment, but his 
voice was grave as he replied: 

“And does not that alone convince you of your coun- 
try’s danger? Do you think it brave or wise to desert her 
when she most needs the support of her loyal sons — needs 
them to protect her from the scheming scoundrels, who 
have only their own interests at heart? Our country needs 
brave men in time of peace more than in time of war. Men 
who can neither be bought nor intimidated and who will 
enforce the law. It is useless to talk of better laws unless 
we have men at the head of our executive departments who 
will enforce them. I believe our own city mayor to be in 
the pay of gambling and liquor houses, for he will not 
have them punished when they break the laws. I have 
called his attention to them time after time, but he will 
take no note of their doings.” 

“Why, I thought our city government was running 
smoothly enough,” said William, in surprise. 

“Too smoothly,” replied Mr. Rivers. “As a rule when 
governments run so smoothly, the devil is having things 
pretty well his own way. Begin opposing him and you 
are sure to stir up trouble. We have no trouble with liquor 
dealers or gamblers, until we begin to oppose them, and 
try to save their victims or cripple their trade.” 


230 


IN THE TOILS OP SLAVERY. 


“But you go on with your opposing just the same,” said 
WilHam, hoping to induce Mr. Rivers to speak of him- 
self. 

“Certainly. Christ came not to bring peace into the 
world, but a sword, and as long as sin and oppression 
abound, it must remain unsheathed; so long it must be 
used to uphold the righteous and defend the weak.” 

“But many Christians do not think their obligations as 
binding as you do yours,” said William. 

“Say rather that they do not think at all,” replied Mr. 
Rivers, hastily, then more slowly. ‘ ‘ Or, no ; perhaps I do 
not understand why many Christians do not appreciate 
their duties and privileges more, and we must not judge 
what we do not understand. Then, too, we are not all 
called to the same work nor given the same talents. I only 
know I must do what I do ; I would not dare do less.” 

“But I hear you have been threatened, even with death; 
they may kill you,” said William. 

“They killed my Lord; is the servant greater than his 
Master ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But what you do here is hard for a man of your years ; 
you cannot bear it much longer at best.” 

“Perhaps not; but the fact that the lawless and wicked 
element of this place does fear me is proof enough that this 
is my place of duty, even if I had had no call to the work. 
No, my young brother; I thank you for your interest in 
my welfare, but this is my place and I would rather meet 
death today at my post than to face my God twenty years 
hence, a deserter.” 

“But do you not find your work very distasteful at 
times?” persisted William. “I presume you do not find 
many congenial companions among these people.” 

“Do you think our Lord found many congenial com- 
panions when He came to this earth ; that His work was al- 
ways tasteful? But He bore it uncomplainingly until His 
work here was done and we are enjoined to do likewise,” 
replied he. 

“You are right,” said William emphatically. “I see it 
all now. You are truly one of God’s free men. You fear 


231 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

neither man nor devil, because you are doing God’s work 
and He will take care of you. They may take your life, 
as they have said, but that is a matter of secondary import- 
ance to you; you are giving your life for your fellow crea- 
tures, just as your Master did before you. What a wonder- 
ful work ! Blessed is he who has found his work, says Car- 
lyle, and surely you have found yours, and a noble one it 
is. May mine be half as worthy.” 

Mr. Rivers smiled at his visitor’s enthusiasm, and re- 
plied : 

“But what does Carlyle say further about work? ‘Where 
thou findest ignorance, stupidity, brute-mindedness — attack 
it I say; smite it wisely, unweariedly, and rest not while 
thou livest and it lives; but smite, smite in the name of 
God. ’ These words might furnish you a clue of your work. ’ ’ 

“And I suppose you think I could at least find the brute- 
mindedness in our modern political machinery,” observed 
William. “But how to go about the smiting, when law- 
lessness is rampant, and unprincipled officials at a premium 
is the question,” 

“You are as pessimistic as Elijah, when he thought him- 
self the only faithful prophet left. You know how he was 
answered, and have we not a few loyal souls who have 
not, and will not bend the knee to bribery and fraud? A 
saving remnant; a divinely inspired minority to think and 
act for us in times of great danger, and who have always 
managed to get us ofi: the dangerous rocks before we were 
quite ground to pieces upon them. It is to this saving few 
that America is calling today, and she must not call in vain. 
You and others like you, who can afford the time, must bear 
the brunt of the battle. It will be a long hard one and you 
may not live to reap the results of it. You will find ignor- 
ance and stupidity as well as brutemindedness and you must 
not only smite but educate and train as you go. You will 
meet discouragements; you will be sneered at by those 
from whom you have a right to expect sympathy, but you 
must not falter ; ‘ whilst thou livest and it lives, ’ remember. 
With a few such dauntless spirits to take the lead I be- 
lieve the time would not be far distant when Americans 


232 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


will expect their officers to he free men; men who bear 
neither the badge of rum slavery in their faces, nor the fear 
of the rum dealer, or any other dealers in their hearts. We 
may then hope to have our present laws enforced, and 
anticipate a time when we will have better ones. ’ ’ 

“What you say is true,” said William, as he arose. “No 
man has a right to live for himself alone, and I shall try 
what one man can do, toward bringing about a better con- 
dition of things in this city. May I come to you again? 
You have helped me much.” 

“Certainly. I shall be glad to help you. Good bye.” 

So Bellmont had found his work. He had been shocked 
and angered at his friend’s untimely death, and had spared 
neither time nor money to bring the murderers to justice, 
but in vain. 

He secured the aid of an able minister and for a time 
contented himself with relieving the poor and distressed, 
but a few w^eeks of Paul Rivers’ work gave him a glimpse 
of corrupt government that astonished even him. 

At first he thought only the police were to blame, but a 
closer look convinced him that the mayor himself was in- 
stigating and encouraging lawlessness. 

Bellmont set his teeth and kept quiet, determined to secure 
evidence enough to convict the leaders before making his 
discoveries known, but before he had succeeded in doing 
this he was made foreman of the Grand Jury, and, like the 
dawning of a new day, his life work arose before him. 

He was aroused still more when the prosecutor gave them 
only routine work to do ; they exchanged emphatic and un- 
complimentary opinions and Bellmont proceeded to size up 
his jury. He found only three men who were willing to 
attack the city government. The others acknowledged the 
need of the attack but thought it too strong to be over- 
thrown. They were talked over, however, and began to 
have faith in their leader. Knowing the detectives of the 
city to be under the mayor’s influence, Bellmont imported 
two at his own expense and soon had indictments for chiefs 
of police and detectives. Then the “gang” opened its eyes 
and mildly inquired the cause of the trouble. It was traced 


233 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


to Bellmont, who as mildly announced his intention of keep- 
ing it up. They tried to bribe him; not that they feared 
him yet; a few trials would show him their power and they 
would be left in peace, so they thought, and when their 
bribe was declined with thanks they were not seriously dis- 
turbed. 

But they had reckoned without Bellmont’s Yankee grit; 
that and Paul Rivers' cloak. Three days later when the 
mayor himself was indicted the criminals were thoroughly 
alarmed; in a week more a new daily paper made its ap- 
pearance, and they were panic stricken. They had hither- 
to regulated most of the city news themselves, but when it 
was noised abroad that the new paper was owned by Bell- 
mont they felt instinctively it would not be ‘‘regulated." 

They then hired sluggers to kill him, but he was warned 
and one slugger was arrested. The chief of police started 
on a trip for his health, but was promptly overtaken and 
brought back. The prosecutor would do nothing, but his 
assistant agreed to help the jury in its arduous work. 

Two of the criminals turned State’s evidence and wit- 
nessed to a state of systematic crime that for boldness and 
vileness could hardly be equaled. 

People had been lured into saloons and gambling dens 
and robbed and the proceeds divided with the officials, and 
children could get liquor at most any saloon in the city. 

Some of the criminals escaped but most of them were pun- 
ished more or less severely ; twenty saloon keepers were put 
out of business ; proprietors of other iniquitous dens suffered 
accordingly, and the end is not yet. 

“But we are not building upon another man’s founda- 
tion,’’ Bellmont remarked to his aunt one evening. “At 
every turn we see marks of that great man’s work. The 
public was already restless and suspicious and the manner 
of his death aroused it as nothing else could have done." 

“But, William, if the city management was so bad here, 
it must be corrupt in other places. What is the cause of 
it all?" 

‘ ‘ Oh. yes, we can at least console ourselves with that balm 
dear to every sinner’s heart; we do not stand alone. As to 


234 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 

the whys and wherefores of political corruption, I presume 
every would-be reformer has his own theory; likewise his 
own cure. My own private opinion is that old-fashioned 
sin is at the bottom of most of it; love of gain for which 
man seems willing to enslave his country, grind his fellow 
men in the dust, and sell his own soul. Of course, only 
God can remove the sin, but man can do much toward 
checking its influence and removing elements that augment 
it. Of these elements, I believe gambling and the liquor 
traffic to be chief. The former counts its victims by the 
thousands and whether indulged in in a low city dive, club 
^oom or my lady^s parlor can conduce only to a lower plane 
of morality, while the latter, like the great, loathsome leper, 
it is, corrupts and degrades everything it touches, and not 
content with its work at home it must needs stretch its ra- 
pacious arm across the waters and draw the unsuspecting 
heathen into its contaminating, embrace. I tell you, aunt, 
I don’t blame so-called heathen nations for scoffing at our 
civilization when it comes hand in hand with a thing like 
this. To be perfectly honest, I would not blame them if 
they should hustle our rum and rum merchants aboard our 
ships and Are them back at us. Though I presume if they 
should do so while we are in our present philanthropic 
frame of mind we would retaliate by forcing our liquor 
upon them at the point of the bayonet. True, we are help- 
ing heathen countries in many ways, but all heathendom can 
not produce anything to surpass our liquor trade in de- 
basing and demoralizing ability, and if Christian America 
would but pluck this great mote from her own eye then 
could she not only see more clearly the needs of her weaker 
sisters but would have a wiser brain and steadier hand to 
help guide and mold them. But we are speaking of evils 
as affecting ourselves, and I believe the two just named, 
together with some of our best business enterprises, manipu- 
lated by shrewd but unprincipled men, have done much 
toward placing us in the grasp of ignorance and vice where 
we now stand. I believe we will succeed in throwing off 
their yoke, but it will be a long fight and a hard one, and 

235 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


when it is ended we will doubtless have learned that ‘ eternal 
vigilance is the price of liberty.’ ” 

Miss Bellmont goes bravely on, teaching and helping 
her girls and women, assisted by Isabelle, who, however, 
is not always wise in her selection of gifts, and only 
gives when seized by a generous mood, which is not often. 
A sort of semi-yearly affliction that came with house-clean- 
ing and lasted about as long, but was the dread of the 
household while it did last. Closets were ransacked, and 
various articles of wearing apparel scattered here and there, 
until the whole house looked like a charity bazaar. 

Isabelle’s charitable moods were particularly irritating to 
William, and one morning as she was sorting a motley col- 
lection of clothing in the middle of the library floor, he 
paused a moment as he passed through, and asked : 

“Why all this disturbance this morning, my dear?” 

“Oh, I’m only getting some things ready for aunt’s peo- 
ple. I shall not need these things any more, and ‘He that 
giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord, ’ you know. ’ ’ 

William surveyed the articles a moment with disfavor, 
before he replied: 

“And so you’re going to lend the Lord a discarded ball 
gown and a pair of dancing slippers. Well, in my humble 
opinion, were He here to receive them in person He would 
have about as much use for them as the people for whom 
they are intended.” 

‘ ‘ William ! ’ ’ exclaimed Miss Bellmont, who had heard the 
conversation. Her nephew’s words sounded like blasphemy 
to her. 

“Well, but why can’t people use more judgment in giv- 
ing? No offense, my dear. Your gifts are no less appro- 
priate than many others I have seen and I would not dis- 
courage you for the world. But let me advise you to keep 
those things or sell them to the second-hand man, and give 
aunt’s people something they can use.” 

Isabelle learned slowly, but Miss Bellmont was more than 
glad to see her interested in any thing, and bore with her 
patiently. 


236 


IN THE TOILS OF SLAVERY. 


McGregor, since the story of his crime was recorded, 
has, by some deplorable quibble of justice, been released 
from prison, and is plying his old trade in a neighboring 
town unmolested. 

As has no doubt been surmised Bunn and Downey se- 
cured license and are doing a highly successful business 
from a financial and Satanic point of view. 

Tom did his best, but the people were tired of the trouble 
and expense, and refused to make another protest that 
would only have to be followed in a few months by another. 

“You see, Tom, ’tain’t no use,” said John Reynolds. “I 
know you Ye right an’ I’m with you. I reckon you and me’s 
pulled together too long to split up now, but as long as the 
majority want the things, I don’t see what we can do.” 

“I can’t understand it,” returned Tom, “but I don’t 
believe the majority o’ the people really wants ’em. Any- 
how, I’m goin’ to keep hammerin’ away on ’em whenever I 
can git a lick in.” 


237 


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